


Prisoner's Dilemma

by partnerincrime



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, In-universe prejudice, M/M, Prisoner Magnus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-01-17 03:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12356838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partnerincrime/pseuds/partnerincrime
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission. But of course, Alec would mess everything up by empathizing with a stone-cold murderer, Magnus Bane, and questioning the events of an investigation that the Clave wants to keep locked away for good.-It's because everyone’s heard things about Magnus Bane, Brooklyn’s ex-high warlock, convicted killer, and the Prince of Hell – a demon made of equal parts magic and fire and brimstone, a lascivious lover who will fuck anything that has a pretty face, the 400 year old warlock who killed Ragnor Fell.Edit: Please check tags and chapter notes for warnings.





	1. Part 1 - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's happening. I guess this means I'm committing to this - I've been piecing this together for the past couple of months in the evenings and this is probably the LONGEST thing I've ever written, even in its WIP form. It will take some time for me to write the whole story out, so I apologize in advance, but I hope you enjoy the ride!
> 
> As always, the hugest, biggest thank-you to my own, partner-in-crime [bumblebeesknees](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebeesknees/pseuds/bumblebeesknees), who beta'd, and who was also with me when we first blew that house of cards down, and rebuilt this crazy monster of a story up. Any other mistakes are my own.

It’s in the midst of fall – when New York begins to smell like cinnamon, and a confetti cannon of red, orange, yellow has exploded over Central Park – when Alec hears word of his next assignment. 

Long-term missions aren’t a common thing at the New York Institute. New York is more known for its speed and efficiency – it’s about getting shit done, and getting it done right. If you’re looking for more commitment, the Toronto Institute is more your speed; Toronto is renowned for its world-class hospitality, with progress reports sent straight to your email every night chock full of box plots and sensitivity analyses (it’s fucking annoying really, thetorontoinstitute@ca.clave.com goes straight to Alec’s spam). So when one of the higher-ups in the Clave informs Robert that they are specifically requesting Alexander Lightwood for this hush-hush, year-long mission, Alec’s parents are, predictably, over the moon. 

A mission assigned directly from the Clave is a big deal to the Lightwood family – it’s an opportunity for redemption, one giant step forward in returning to the elite. "You deserve this, Alec", Jace says as he pats him on the back with hearty, congratulatory thumps; "I'm so proud of you, Alec", Izzy says as she looks at him with her warm doe eyes and hugs him tight; while his parents – don’t even get him started about his _parents_ – are beaming so bright they might as well as be the second and third suns, Maryse and Robert each gripping one of his shoulders firmly and collectively saying, “we expect great things from you, Alec”.

It's all a little too overwhelming, all a little too much. 

Alec on the other hand, can’t actually tell if this assignment is actually a blessing or some sort of punishment in disguise when the mission brief that pings onto his screen the next morning. He squints long and hard at the written directive in front of him, words ordering him to report to the Silent City at nineteen hundred hours every Thursday to supervise Magnus Bane during his leniency hearings in Idris. He wonders if there’s a secret cipher, a Caesar shift maybe, hidden somewhere within the lines because this can’t be possibility be it, can it? 

For all the secrecy regarding the circumstances, this really isn’t what Alec was expecting. 

But a duty is a duty, and expectation weighs heavy in his mind that he finds himself, predictably, standing alone in front of the gates of New York’s Marble cemetery next Thursday evening (coincidentally missing the Institute’s monthly mixer, but Alec’s okay with that. No one needs to see him mingle awkwardly with girls while he tries not to be noticed that he's noticing boys). It’s a terribly foreboding evening – the sky above him is overcast and sombre, and the wind whips around him like a whisper of warning about an impending storm on the verge of rolling through, as if someone up in the clouds had decided that all that was missing from Alec's whole predicament was some atmospheric, angry weather; the most fitting backdrop for a cemetery to make everything the most idyllic cliché. 

Not that the foreboding feeling is new here – Alec has always felt uncomfortable in this sleepy cemetery; wrong, immoral, that he’s trampling over sacred ground when the dead sleep only a couple feet below. Over the course of the past two decades, his parents have dragged him, Jace, and Izzy here a many number of times, to this specific entrance of the Silent City – once to seek Brother Zachariah for some advice on how to stop the burning sting of ichor when it gets in the eyes, and another, more haunting, instance to witness a ex-shadowhunter spill out his every truth before being tossed into the dark recesses of the abyss below – and it’s never gotten any easier. 

Even as children, he and Izzy used to hold their breath within these walls, spooked by the tale of spirits entering their bodies if they inhaled too deep, veered too far, or talked too much – and he still hasn’t let it go, Alec realizes, when he then catches himself holding his breath right now. 

And at this moment, Alec is feeling the full effect of that discomfort as it edges out all his other thoughts. It sends a chill down his spine and a ruffle through his navy cashmere scarf (a present from Izzy, warm and practical, if extremely overpriced), as he pulls it closer, desperate to ward off the sudden apprehension he feels. 

But Alec's not deterred (apprehension is just a feeling, he tells himself, it's all in the mind), as he steps forward and the door to the Silent City slowly comes into view, the three marble slats pressed into the cobbled stonework of the south wall. The rattling of branches shivering startles him, and makes Alec looks up – only for his eyes meet with the cold, blank stare of a cherub staring back at him, hoisted on one of those white marble pillars. Its lips are pursed knowingly as if to whisper, “I know what you’re doing, shadowhunter,” as if it knows exactly where this entrance goes to, and the going ons beneath their feet – a city belonging to 'angels', built on the bones of their own dead, and its lower bowels filled with all sorts of unsavoury criminals, killers, and wrongdoers galore, all going mad in the lonely darkness below. 

There’s something that irks him about this statue though, that rubs him the wrong way. Maybe it’s the judgement that is somehow etched into its features, or its seemingly sweet angelic face that looks like its mocking him no matter which way he turns. He stares back defiantly, and wants to tell it, straight, "we lock up bad people, people who all deserve to be here," yell at this object that's not even alive. 

But he won't because it's stupid, and he doesn’t have anything to prove to this stupid, fake angel. 

So instead Alec marches forward and doesn’t look back – he activates the entrance rune that push back the slats into the wall, and steps foot into the Silent City. 

\--

Alec Lightwood meets Magnus Bane for the first time at 6:57 pm EST, in the lower cells of the Silent City, where the scant light of the torches stretch long shadows across the ceiling, illuminating the hollows of the skulls embedded in the walls. It’s a mostly uneventful meeting given where they are – the air musty and the atmosphere grim – except Alec can’t help but think that this person in front of him whose hair is long and beard is unkempt, skin pale and almost translucent, with his waist pencil thin is not _Magnus Bane_. 

The Institute’s case files about Magnus were numerous and quite outrageous, sometimes downright scandalous, that read like some sort of bizarre adventure novel in which the author ended up using _everything_ because they just couldn’t make up their mind. Alec had spent nearly an entire week trawling through each and every detail, each new brief received from the Clave sending him careening down yet another rabbit hole into the unknown (the dark circles under his eyes proof of his dedication). But what caught Alec’s attention was the pictures – there were _so many_ pictures – pictures of Magnus always impeccably dressed, in all sorts of outfits in different colours and shapes and silhouettes. From decadent furs to breezy linen tunics to clean-lined wool coats, but always with the same magnetic, bright, and full-of-life eyes that made it difficult to look anywhere but Magnus – apparent even through the greyscale film. 

“ _That’s_ Magnus?” Jace had come over to Alec’s station one night, in his hand a takeout container of moo-shu pork. “He doesn’t look anything like the Clave makes him out to be… I thought he’d be more dark and sinister, y’know. Devil ears.” He holds up his chopsticks, one each at to the side of his head as if he's sprouted horns. 

“Apparently he has demon eyes?” Alec says as he grabs at the container that Jace has placed on his desk, frowning when he only sees a couple of limp noodles at the bottom. 

Jace starts rotating through the catalog of digitalized photos on the screen like a roulette wheel as he says, “he doesn’t look that tough.” He puts his finger to the screen, which abruptly brings the spinning to a halt, conveniently in front of a picture of Magnus decked out in lederhosen. 

But Alec knows better than that. “Never judge a book by its cover – that’s how they always get you.”

It's because everyone’s heard things about Magnus Bane, Brooklyn’s ex-high warlock, convicted killer, and the Prince of Hell – a demon made of equal parts magic and fire and brimstone, a lascivious lover who will fuck anything that has a pretty face, the 400 year old warlock who killed Ragnor Fell. And while none of these are the kindest of titles, Alec knows that Magnus Bane isn’t a kind man – Alec doesn’t need to watch the five-year old security tapes of Magnus Bane’s last break-out attempt a hundred times to know this to be true (although, he did). 

The tapes were a confirmation, not a revelation of what Alec already knew – Magnus Bane had the capability to kill, and he didn’t need magic to do it. The sheer ferocity of Magnus Bane’s attack that night half a decade ago was in no way diminished by the heavy static that fuzzed out the corners of his screen, the way he slammed his forehead up into the jaw of one of the unsuspecting guards, cracked the ribs of another with a sharp elbow to the gut, and pinned another to the ground, thumbs pressed brutally into his throat. 

Alec could only watch and replay and watch and replay the chaos that ensued with some sick, morbid fascination, to the point where his mind was automatically filling in the soundtrack to the muted video, each beat of a fist, every crack of bone. There was a desperation in the way Magnus fought, and desperation always leads a man to do crazy things, whether it be killing another warlock, or critically injuring twelve shadowhunters that were on guard that night, and putting one more into a coma. 

So seeing him in the flesh, this thin, deflated shell of a man, dressed in white, tattered muslin, makes Jace's question echo in his mind, _"That's Magnus?"_

However, unlike all the other prisoners Alec’s passed down here, there’s an odd sort of calm about Magnus, nothing like the other prisoners who reach out to grab at him, tried to pull him close as if trying to grasp at the particles of sunshine that Alec has brought into the City with him. There’s an awareness there – Alec can see it, the way Magnus hackles raise as they approach, the slow, cautious steps forward as he moves towards the bars to greet them, and the way his golden eyes immediately dart to the left side of brother Enoch's hip as he produces a set of keys from under his robes. 

Alec’s fingertips automatically skim over the weathered straps of his holster at his leg, acknowledging the comfortable weight of the seraph blade at his thigh.

After a confirmation that magical inhibitors on Magnus’ wrists are indeed working (Alec notices how big his hands are compared to Magnus’ wrists, his fingers swallowing the delicate bones there completely), Brother Enoch leads the way, dragging then through the maze of corridors that make up the Silent City. Deep shadows chase them at every twist and turn, attracted to the warm orange glow of Brother Enoch’s torch, each click of his staff scraping against the wet stone ringing through the hall like the steady tick of a timer, ready to go off. 

Alec follows closely behind Magnus, rounding out their patchwork trio, opting for the back end of the group so he can keep his eyes perpetually glued to Magnus’ form. He makes note of each twitch of Magnus’ fingers, each bob of his head, each roll of his shoulders as he balances across the uneven floor, an exaggerated slink that makes him look like a wildcat – a panther maybe, graceful yet dangerous even when he’s become almost a shadow of the man Alec has seen in the photos, Alec unsure of if or when he’s about to strike. 

Alec just can’t stop staring. It's like a spot-the-differences gone wrong; how can this pile of skin and bone, this walking skeleton be Magnus Bane, _the Magnus Bane_ , from those pictures before? Alec is so transfixed, he nearly collides into his thin frame when they finally come to a full stop in front of a heavy gate, Idris scrawled above the bars in Latin, in an imposing pointed font. 

The jarring comparison finally gets to him when he stands side-by-side to Magnus (his waist is so _small_ ) at Brother Enoch's request as he prepares the entrance, that Alec can't help but blurt out, “You look like shit.” 

The speed at which Magnus whips his head in Alec’s direction just isn’t human, especially for someone’s whose just spent fifteen years locked up in a physical and mental asylum. Alec goes for his seraph blade on instinct, his hand already on the hilt the second Magnus looks his way. 

Magnus brow furrows, before an amused, almost predatory, smirk tugs at the side of his mouth. “As do you, shadowhunter, but what’s your excuse?” His eyes never leave the blade. 

And there's Magnus. 

Alec counters, "What’s wrong with how I look?" He doesn't look down, eyes still trained on Magnus. Not only is Alec intimately familiar with this trick – he lives with Jace after all – but Magnus is a _killer_ , the kind of person who would kill one of his own kind; and that's enough to make Alec constantly vigilant, wary about what Magnus will do next. 

Magnus' smirk only grows wider as he says, "No one who looks that dead-tired would be caught wearing leather pants that tight, unless you're secretly Mick Jagger in disguise, or on payroll for the night shift at Chippendales."

Before Alec can retort back (not that he has a response – the references are totally lost on him), Brother Enoch is unexpectedly pushing them through the portal to Idris without a word (Brother Enoch was always kind of a dick). They almost literally fall into the arms of several expecting Clave members waiting on the other side, who all immediately go for Magnus with an unforgiving vice, tugging at his wrists to pull them behind him, pushing his head down forcefully by the scruff of his neck. 

"A welcoming party for me? You really shouldn't have, darlings, I must insist–" Magnus starts before his words are cut off as he's violently kneed in the stomach, breath knocked out of his lungs. 

He staggers and slumps forward as one of the Idris guards roughly grabs his face and spits, "Shut your lying, filthy mouth, downworlder. No one wants to hear what you have to say." 

And then Magnus isn’t Magnus anymore. 

He’s then shoved forward, made to walk, as Alec trails quietly behind. 

It's only when they finally get to the waiting room – a sterile cube of white walls, ceilings, and floors – when Magnus is forced to sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs directly across from Alec, does Alec finally get a good look at Magnus' face. It's an ugly look, an unhealthy grimace, a bruise blooming on his cheek, and his eyes – glazed with this dull hardness, frigid, full of distrust and _hate_. 

It's nothing like the pictures in Magnus’ file. Alec immediately looks away. 

\--

Magnus Bane tries to break out on the Silent City in the fourth week into Alec’s assignment. 

Luckily it’s not during Alec’s shift, but nonetheless, he’s immediately pulled into questioning the next morning. Alec doesn’t know what to tell the shadowhunters who are interrogating him – it’s not like Magnus and him are best friends or anything, four two-hour sessions of awkward silence can only get you so far in a relationship – but he dutifully answers, ‘no’, Magnus Bane didn’t do anything, ‘no’, Magnus Bane didn’t tell him anything, and ‘no’, Magnus Bane didn’t even _talk_ to him. 

It’s not until the Imogen Herondale shows up, that Alec feels his shoulders roll back and his posture straighten in deference (or fear, he can’t tell). She wordlessly enters the room and takes the seat across from him, placing her hands together as if in prayer, on the metal table that separates them – then doesn’t say a thing. 

She’s looking at Alec expectantly with her steely grey eyes, like Alec’s supposed to say something, supposed to confess _something_ , but Alec doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. He holds out for as long as he can but the weight of her gaze is heavy, waiting – that words just start flowing, random snippets about his research on Magnus Bane, and an unending stream of observations about how Magnus Bane doesn’t look healthy, how he’s different from the other prisoners, how he’s lucid, conscious, _aware_ , how he watched Brother Enoch like a hawk as he withdrew his keys, how he eyed Alec’s blade. 

He’s nervous he realizes, reminiscent of the feeling when he had to recite the shadowhunter’s oath by heart when he was inducted into the ranks. His nerves get the better of him and he stops talking, lapsing into a long, drawn-out silence where Alec can only keep his eyes transfixed to the table, particularly on two sets of vertical marks a hands-width apart, which digs deep into the metal. He frowns, then looks up. 

There’s a brief flicker where the Inquisitor looks like a shadow, with her hair drawn up tight, her face eclipsed by darkness, her eyes going impossibly cold. The scrape of her chair startles Alec, as she comes around and pats Alec on the back, says to him, “You’ve been a great help, Alec, we made the right decision picking you. Your parents would be very proud.” Then she leaves, her grey cloak chasing her out the door. 

The tension leaves his body as the door clicks closed, and all at once, Alec feels lighter than he’s ever felt before. He feels like he’s passed a test with flying colours, or like when he’s broken his record for the number of consecutive bullseyes in a minute – it’s this pleasant combination happy and _proud_ that warms his belly (wait until his parents hear about this, Imogen never compliments _anyone_ ), and for once, a prediction of great things to come. 

Then next Thursday rolls around. 

The first thing Alec notices when he enters the Silent City is that Brother Isaac is there to greet him instead of Brother Enoch (but it’s really hard to say, all Silent Brothers look more or less alike), and it triggers alarm bells in Alec, the change in routine a clear signal that something is different. This time, unlike the last four times, he’s led into what feels like even further into the complex cavernous maze of twisting corridors, weaving left and right, then right then left in unending circles, until they reach the lowest of the lower cells of the Silent City. 

The lowest of the lower cells is what Magnus deserves, Alec tells himself, as _the Law is hard, but it is the Law_. Magnus killed one of his own. Crimes must be paid in full, no matter what the punishment, no easy way out. 

Alec has never been this deep in the City before, where the atmosphere is a different kind of sombre altogether. Its darker, in both the mental and physical sense, the lack of sconces on the walls preventing from making out his own hands when Brother Isaac and his torch disappear around a sharp corner – and it's wetter and colder, more unfriendly – as if this area was specifically designed to choke out the remaining bits of hope within you, with its inky black gloom. 

It’s only when Brother Isaac stops in front of a holding cell in the centre of the room, an oversized bird cage lined with two-inch iron bars, does Alec start to question his resolve, see it crumble at the edges. Who can survive here, Alec thinks, a year, a month, let alone a week? The complete darkness, it eats at you – to be surrounded by quiet nothingness, with only your inner thoughts and demons to keep you company, keep you entertained. It's when Alec finally sees Magnus – when Brother Isaac waves his torch in a white hot streak in front of him, Alec’s vision going spotty before adjusting to the light – does Alec's resolve truly snap in two. 

Magnus looks pathetic. He’s lying prone on the ground, a cheek plastered against the wet-looking stone beneath them, like he needs something to cool an ache that won't fade, and his eyes glassy, staring into nothingness. He doesn't acknowledge them when they enter his cell or check his wrists – it's almost as if there's lead in his limbs, or he's experiencing the weight of gravity for the first time – and he just can't be bothered to expend any energy to control his own body. 

Alec can't help but feel the empathy that grips him, tight around his neck. It robs him of his words, making it difficult to speak. 

"Is he... is he alright?" Alec whispers.

Brother Isaac doesn't respond back. It's enough for Alec to realize that question is a mistake, and he quashes those feelings into a small, tight ball, and throws them away. _Magnus had killed someone, he had killed Ragnor Fell_ – and that's enough of a reminder for Alec to shrug off the empathy and reequip his mask of indifference, an almost too easy exchange. 

Brother Isaac somehow manages to hoist Magnus up on his feet, get Magnus to the gate, and get Magnus to Idris into the safe custody of the Clave (and Alec still watches, hesitant). It's only when they finally enter the holding room, does Magnus seem to let something go, slumping into a chair in a heap, bonelessly sprawled over the ugly brown laminate of the chair's backrest. 

Alec hears a deep sigh, a long exhalation of breath. Magnus' eyes are closed. 

And it’s only now that Alec feels safe enough to take the time to really look at Magnus, stare with an open frankness, now that they’re alone and he’s sitting two feet away. Alec’s gaze starts with Magnus’ face and travels downwards in a slow descent – he identifies a long, hairline scratch that extends through Magnus right eye (maybe he scratched himself); the other, mottled blue yellow in its socket (maybe he hit his head); long, angry red welts on the back of his arms (maybe he was really itchy); and a poorly concealed agony rune tattooed to his wrist (…Alec doesn’t know what to say to that). 

Alec stops there – he can’t look any further knowing what this means, these uncomfortable truths. He needs confirmation, he needs to know. 

“Hey. Are you… are you okay?”

Magnus slowly opens an eye at him, assessing, before he finally breaking his silence, “As I recall you saying previously, ‘I look like shit’ on the regular. Nothing has changed.”

“What I mean to say is… you look shittier than before.” Once the sentence leaves his mouth, Alec's kicking himself – he's never been the best at expressing his thoughts, wit always an elusive mistress, never marrying his words. 

Magnus easily picks up on this. “Eloquent. Your mastery of the spoken word astounds me – I’m glad that modern language has only moved forward in all the time that I’ve been locked up here,” Magnus’ tone is flat, and he winces as he sits up in his seat. 

Alec scowls. Magnus catches it. “Aw, poor little shadowhunter. Did I hurt your delicate sensibilities?”

"No," Alec mutters darkly. 

“Oh, of course not, darling. Since there really isn’t anything delicate about the whole lot of you is there, a bunch of pretentious assholes who only know how to fight with fists and hide behind all your manipulative rules.”

There's something infuriating about how Magnus talks to him, the tone he uses that makes it seem like Magnus is better than them – like he's riling Alec to try and make a go at him, clamouring for more. It makes Alec almost regret speaking to him – what exactly is he trying to accomplish anyways, engaging with the enemy, this person who breaks the rules and can’t stomach the punishment they deserve? 

His gaze falls to Magnus’ wrist once again and something ugly twists in his chest, twists a little too hard, that he decides to has to try again, be the mature one here. 

“Look, two hours is a lot of time and I don’t know how many months that these hearings are supposed to go on for, but let's at least try to be civil with each other." He stretches out a hand in front of him (he sees Magnus flinch), as he says, "I don't think I've formally introduced myself. My name's Alec. Alec Lightwood.” 

Magnus stares at his outstretched palm for a long second, before he starts to chuckle, which eventually evolves into something more, much more – this off-kilter laughter – a strange, hollow noise that echoes throughout the small room, as if his vocal cords have forgotten how to produce the sound. 

When his laughter dies down into soft wheezing, he says, "Are you kidding me? Is this some strange shadowhunter version of good cop, bad cop? I’ve watched enough _Lethal Weapon_ to tell you that it never works. As I’ve told your _lovely_ Inquisitor before, _no_ , I did not magically seduce brother Enoch into ‘accidentally’ dropping the keys in front my cell – these Silent Brothers couldn’t get one up even if they found a succubus propositioning them in their beloved archives, legs open and begging to be fucked.”

Alec feels himself freeze even as his face grows burning hot. While Magnus is making this uncomfortable, harder than it needs to be, what bothers Alec more than Magnus’… vivid imagination (No one talks about the Silent Brothers like _this_ – they always find out), is this sinking realization that he may have caused this – the cuts, the welts, the bruises and unnecessary pain – with what he may have intentionally and unintentionally said. 

And it’s that fact that hurts him – a sharp stab of guilt, like a knife to the gut. 

Guilt is a heavy anchor for Alec, which casts a wide net that makes him drag his feet. And he hates it because it makes the right choices that much harder, decisions aren’t made with a clear head – it's such a priceless debt to bear, in which the terms of repayment haven’t been made clear, in which the usual fixes (money, gold, power) aren’t easy to identify, and often times, not enough to placate. And this time, he's not sure he deserves it, if this guilt is his burden to have because he can't think of any scenario where the outcome would have changed despite what he did or what he said – if there was anything he would have done (or could have done) different anyways. 

But it’s those incessant thoughts that amplify those harsh whispers that haunt him, echoing through the space between his ears, _“This is your fault.”_

So Alec has to try again, one final time, saying in a surprisingly soft voice to quell those thoughts that are starting to creep and attach itself to the walls of his mind, like vines of ivy, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Alec immediately regrets asking when he sees Magnus’ eyes harden, his pupils disappearing into thin slits as he snaps at him, “Yes, look at me, I’m perfectly fine – this is _exactly_ how I planned to live my life from the get go. I planned _this_ , me to become a prisoner of the Clave, me to spend fifteen god-awful years rotting in this hellhole, accused for the murder for my best friend." 

He's looking straight at Alec now, eyes intense. "Don’t treat me with kindness, shadowhunter – you put me here, you keep me here – you don’t have the right to ask me if I’m okay.”

\-- 

Alec doesn’t sleep well over the next week. He tells himself it’s a multitude of things – he’s been too busy, too many things on his mind, that he’s likely an insomniac by now – but as he lays awake at 6am, when the birds trill their annoying song and the searing sunlight starts to seep through his window, it always comes down to that single seed of guilt that had rooted itself into the loose space of his mind, that starts to trickle like sticky poison into his daily thoughts. _Is this my fault?_ It’s a heavy question that wages war between what he considers his responsibilities are and where his morality lies (or where he tells himself it lies), a tenacious battle in which there isn’t a prevalent winner coming to the forefront. 

He needs advice, he decides, so he goes on the hunt for Izzy and Jace, and nearly flips the whole Institute upside down one day, only to pin them down for a couple minutes each. They’re preoccupied with other things, important things – Jace has a new girlfriend who he’s so in love with, a fiery redhead who is really nothing but trouble; and Izzy’s constantly in the library, studying for some prestigious pathology accreditation – Alec really doesn’t want to bother them. So he gives them hypotheticals, since it really isn’t a too big deal when he thinks about it. 

“Alec, I think you should apologize,” says Izzy, taking a brief break from her books. “Even though it’s this ‘Jessica Hawkblue’s’ fault for telling ‘Mick Jagger’ the wrong thing, everything should be out in the open so you can tell him your perspective. It’ll bite you back in the butt one day, if Mick ever finds out from someone else.” 

“Alec, it’s not your fault,” says Jace, clapping Alec on the back as he heads out. “You didn’t know that this ‘Jessica Hawkblue’ would misconstrue your good intentions to tell the truth. ‘Jessica Hawkblue’ is the one who hurt this ‘Mick Jagger’ fellow, you don’t need to tell him anything.” 

And it really doesn’t help in the slightest. 

The least he can do is lessen the weight, he decides, to take little bits of both their advice, to not tell Magnus but also somehow apologize at the same time.

So he decides to bring a loaf of a bread for Magnus , as a supplement to whatever they feed him down in the City, to get more meat on his bones and fill out his form, so he can at least fall closer to the category of human instead of skeleton. Alec makes a run to a little bakery close to the corner of Union and Court the following Thursday afternoon, grabbing a fresh loaf with the crust stuffed with black salty olives, the door jingling merrily as he leaves. 

It’s only when he actually makes it to Idris, the brown paper bag keeping the bread hot held tight under his arm, which he realizes that this also, may have been a stupid idea. 

Magnus eyes the loaf of bread warily. “What’s this for? Do all prisoners get a consolation prize when they fail an escape out of the Silent City nowadays?”

Definitely a bad idea. Alec scrambles for an excuse, something that’s somewhat reasonable. “You looked worse for wear the last time – like you were dying.”

“I am dying in here. Of boredom.” Magnus is still looking at the bag as if it’s a trap – set, ready, and waiting to spring. 

“It’s not poisoned or anything, I promise.” Alec rips a tiny piece and puts it in his mouth, and shrugs when nothing happens. “See?”

“Mm.”

“Just take it. Please.” Alec thrusts the paper bag towards him, crinkling noisily in his hand. 

The look that Magnus gives him could cut glass. “What’s _wrong_ with you? I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, being ‘nice’ to me – ease your conscious somehow – but a fucking loaf of bread isn’t going to cut it.” There’s so much acid in his tone, he’s almost spitting flames. 

His words make Alec recoil, singed by Magnus' fire that practically burns his dignity alive – and alarm bells are screaming in embarrassment ( _where’s the self-preservation, Alec?_ ) confirming that this was 100%, a terrible, terrible idea. Magnus is right – why did he think this would be enough? Why did he bring this dumb loaf bread? He looks at the offending loaf that's peeking out of the oil-stained crinkling paper bag that suddenly goes cold and stale in his hands. 

There has to be another way. 

“Well, what exactly would you want then?” Alec asks, which comes out softer than he intended it to. 

Magnus’ response on the other hand, is almost immediate and cutting in its tone, “I want to not be here, I want my best friend to be alive.”

“You know I can’t help you with that–”

“Then stop fucking _trying_.” Magnus explodes, and the bread goes flying as he lunging at Alec with that inhuman, unthinkable speed again. Alec barely has enough time to grab at his seraph blade and hold it to Magnus’ throat. 

Magnus is impossibly close, without being close at the same time, the sharp edge of Alec's blade a hair’s width away from the curve of Magnus’ Adam’s apple, the tips of their noses almost touching, uncomfortable puffs of hot air on his cheek. Magnus has him trapped, his thin frame suddenly so large as he lumbers over him in this big overarching shadow and he’s too close – Alec can see straight into Magnus’ demon eyes, as the gold swirls and contracts, almost as if they were individually _breathing_ , like each one is its own living thing. 

Alec, however, doesn’t breathe. Magnus is inhaling all the air around him, only leaving the dust for Alec to take in, that chokes and burns his lungs. 

So they stay like that, for a long minute, staring at each other – until Magnus sighs deep, releasing his hands curling around the seat arms of Alec’s chair, the ones he was holding tight as if to rein himself in. The thin metal arms let out a whimper as he stands up, now bent from the pressure – unlike Alec, who can’t release the tension that strings his muscles taut. 

“You really need to stop trying to make things ‘better’, because whatever _this_ is, it's not better. It's almost crueler what you're doing, laying down false hope.” 

Resignation colours Magnus’ voice when he speaks, almost as a confession. “I really don’t know what your game is, shadowhunter. Are you trying to play me?” He leans forward as he says this, and Alec immediately leans back, his shoulder blades digging into the backrest, as if to get away.

“Did the Clave send me a pretty face to make me open and weak, make me trust someone they think that can gain backdoor access to my secrets?” His eyes flicker over Alec’s face and he must see something (Alec hopes it’s not fear), because his expression softens. “Or did the Clave send me a naïve little soldier who doesn’t know the first thing about hardship, the harsh realities of what you people stick your fingers into – the torment, the politics, and deceit?”

Alec feels his expression sour, when Magnus calls him a ‘naïve little soldier’ (he’s not – he’s human, he _cares_ ), and that signature gleam in Magnus’ eye returns. 

“You know you owe me nothing, Lightwood. You specifically haven’t done anything to warrant my hate. I don’t know what you want my forgiveness for, asking what I want, even though I’m not in a position to refuse anything you ask of me. When this all goes belly up, remember that this is your _own_ doing, your own fault, you understand?” 

But Magnus doesn't know. So even though Magnus is giving him a way out, saying that essentially it's not Alec's fault, Alec doesn't fully believe him. He can't. 

_I deserve some of this_ , Alec thinks, and he swallows. The sound fills his ears. “What did you have in mind?”

When Alec acquiesces, something changes in Magnus' posture, as he leans back into the seat of his chair, his arms around the backrests of each chair beside him, and crosses his legs. It's like he owns this place, Alec thinks, when he really doesn't at all. Magnus knows the ball is in his court, and he's putting thought into this, which scares Alec more than he actually cares to admit. 

Magnus finally speaks. 

“I will ask three questions each time you visit,” he finally says, holding up a finger when he sees Alec’s brow furrow, a protest already on his lips, “Let me clarify. I will ask you three questions _about yourself_ each time you visit – not about the trial, not about the Clave. I’ll even give you the option to abstain from answering whichever you want, but at the end of the day I want three answers.”

“ _This_ is what you want?” Alec is in disbelief. Magnus must be playing his cards close to his chest, there must be a trick in this somehow – there are better bargains than this. Alec asks, “What kind of questions exactly are we talking about here?” 

“Oh you know, think about it like profile for a blind date. Your likes, your dislikes – whether you like horror or comedies, long romantic walks on the beach, that sort of thing.”

There must be a catch, Alec thinks again. While he’s never been on a blind date (he’s always been busy with ‘work’ when Izzy or his parents set something up), there’s absolutely nothing Magnus can get out of this, asking about Alec Lightwood, who has had a normal childhood, who has a normal life, who has a wonderful sister and brothers, a plan in the works to become the Head of the New York Institute. He knows where his priorities lie, he’s steadfast in his ways – Magnus even gave him the option to abstain – so he just asks, “Why? What do you get out of this?”

Magnus looks at him expectantly, waiting. “I ask the questions in this transaction, shadowhunter. The terms are already skewed in your favour, just the way you like them. Don’t these unbalanced terms meet your unbalanced demands?”

If this is what Magnus really wants, Alec can at least give him this. "Okay, sure. Do you still want–", he gestures to the olive bread that lays on the floor, forgotten.

Magnus rolls his eyes as he picks it up, wipes the dirt off of it, and tears off a large chunk, which he stuffs into his mouth. As he chews, mouth open, he says, "There. Happy?" 

Alec just grits his teeth.


	2. Part 1 - Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry for the delay. This story is, to put it simply, a (nice!) challenge to write just because of the content and style I've decided on ... so thank you all for sticking with, despite my need to go write something happy and fun like the other stories I've written in the meantime. 
> 
> Anywho, hope you enjoy and the wait was worth it! I'm always appreciative to hear what you guys think, so feel free to leave a comment :)
> 
> And big thanks to [bumblebeesknees](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebeesknees/pseuds/bumblebeesknees), for a plethora of reasons, the topmost for this chapter being: the beta, personal consultations, destroying my arguments, and pushing me to finish this today! This story wouldn't be anywhere but down a trash compactor if it wasn't for her <3

Magnus starts asking Alec questions on the fifth week into the job. 

The questions start off innocently enough – they are softly lobbed and throw Alec for a tailspin when he hears them. Simple, stupid surface level things that doesn't tell Magnus anything – it's not about the trial, the Clave, or anything related to the politics of shadowhunters at all, and it has Alec on edge. _There must be a catch._ It's as if Alec is waiting for the fine print to reveal itself, to get ensnared in Magnus' little game and finally get caught in this finely spun web of the unspoken conditions and the secret contingencies at play. 

Even now, when Alec thinks it over, he really shouldn't have agreed to this (but still, his conscience thanks him for it as his head hits his pillow every night and he wakes up refreshed from soundless, dreamless sleep), uneasiness welling in his bones due to how _easy_ this is, these questions that Magnus is asking. Yet despite how harmless the questions are in appearance, Alec makes sure he's careful – he mulls the questions over for a long, hard minute, trying to identify the hidden meaning behind Magnus' words – and when he doesn't, Alec still provides his answers with muted colour and clipped tones. 

But for all the caution that Alec takes, there's an utter lack of it with Magnus; it's like they're equal parts restraint and recklessness, only balanced when mixed. Alec starts to notice that Magnus is strangely frivolous with his words in that for every question he asks, Magnus answers himself – with an unrelenting torrent of information that reminds Alec of a leaky faucet just waiting for someone to turn the knob, just waiting for someone to release everything that's been held back for fifteen years, with an open and frank honesty that comes crashing down on him with a surprising force. 

So when Magnus asks Alec what his favourite colour is and when Alec says black, he's required to promptly change it to blue when Magnus informs him that black is most definitely a ‘shade’ (Magnus’ favourite colour is purple or maroon, specifically ‘deep eggplant’ or ‘burgundy’, he hasn't decided just yet and he gives Alec the full twenty persnickety reasons as to why). 

So when Magnus asks him what his favourite food and when Alec says burgers, he’s required to further refine his answer into a double cheeseburger with light mayo, tomato, hot peppers, hold the pickles (Magnus’ favourite dish is something that Alec doesn't even know, something involving rice, tofu, chillies, and peanut sauce – he tosses 'gato gato’ into Google for good measure, only to land on several hundred pictures of cats). 

And when Magnus asks him what his favourite holiday is, Alec says that there are no holidays for shadowhunters. But he admits only to himself, in the secret recesses of his mind, that it's most likely whatever mundanes celebrate in December, when they hoist the huge evergreen in the middle of the Rockefeller Centre, heavy-handedly powdered with clusters of twinkling rainbow stars, and 5th Avenue is a colourful spectacle of extravagant window displays suffused by the glow of the halogen lights. (On the other hand, Magnus' favourite holiday is 'Halloween', in which children go around door-to-door and ask for candy and play pranks, which sounds to Alec more like some strange coming-of-age ritual versus a good time). 

Then, on the seventh week, when Magnus asks him what his favourite place to visit is outside the USA, Alec says Idris. When Magnus doesn't prompt him to elaborate or revise, nor does he dive into his own customary long-winded response, Alec casually asks, "And you?" (Alec suspects Magnus’ answer will be Peru based on his case files, as Magnus had made several trips there over the years).

But instead, Magnus snorts and says, "London," and then he laughs and he laughs this crazed, unstoppable laugh, and their Q&A period is cut short.

And from there on, the questions get deeper, harder for Alec to answer. 

It's on the ninth Thursday, when Alec notices that Magnus is looking particularly terrible – bruises under his eyes, scabs on his skin – and it’s getting harder and harder for Alec to date each set as the new mix with the old into a terrible mosaic of purple and blue and green. Magnus is uncharacteristically quiet – he doesn't say anything for the longest time but just sits there with a strange sort of forlorn look haunting his eyes, like he's a thousand miles away and thinking of something else besides his chapped and bleeding lips, those blisters on his knuckles, or that hunger that keeps Magnus' stomach rumbling every half-hour. 

Alec clues in further when, a full hour into their silent session, Magnus asks, seemingly out of the blue, "What do you want to be remembered for in your death?" Magnus’ voice is unnaturally hoarse, as if it had been a while since he's last spoken. 

The question combined with the blunt edge that Magnus has used to ask it hits Alec like a kick to the chest, that he nearly falls out of his chair. Alec doesn’t say anything to this – its because he doesn’t know what to say. He also doesn't ask why Magnus is asking this question – he realizes he doesn't really want to know either. 

"Just entertain me, please," Magnus says to the silence – and it is a plea, lost and defeated.

It’s the first thing that Alec has heard Magnus say today, so he softens, gives in – grants Magnus that one moment of clemency in a day that seemed to drain the life straight out of him. 

But it’s a tough question. When Alec really thinks about it, he doesn’t even know where to start. It’s not like he dwells on these sorts of thoughts, nor is he asked about his death on the regular – maybe only a couple of times, once or twice – on a particularly bad mission or in the midst of teenage angst phase part of his life (which, in retrospect, wasn’t longer than three months – there isn’t anything productive about being a whiny fifteen year-old, tasked with being the deputy-in-charge of running the New York Institute). He has never had to wade any further into the uncharted territory of human mortality and the finality of his own life than the edges of its shores, the coldness of it all reaching only the tips of his toes. 

So instead, Alec thinks about life – what defines him, particularly his goals and what he wants to achieve in this lifetime. It’s the best place to start he decides, because he's always been a goal-oriented person, ever since he's learned about the Lightwood name and what it stands for, amplified tenfold by the introduction of Jace into his life. 

Alec knows who he is – he is a straightforward creature with a one-track mind such that when he sets a goal, it will never not be accomplished; that's just who he is. And with this comes the concept of deliberate practice – always incorporated into his routine, the ultimate key to achieving anything he's ever wanted to do. When he wanted to run faster, he woke up at 6am every morning to run grueling laps around the Institute, timed so that he can shave off milliseconds off to finally catch up to Jace; when he wanted to prove to the Clave that yes, the New York Institute is the best fucking Institute run by the fucking Lightwoods, he reorganized the patrol schedules, quantified their control systems, revised the training regimens, and individually works at closing at least three cold cases each year – that's just who he is. 

So when Magnus asks him what he wants to remembered for in death, his mind automatically flits to what drives him in life, distilled into two tangible, achievable goals that essentially are the cornerstones of each decision he makes: he wants to become the Head of the New York Institute and he wants to protect his family. 

And so far, Alec's found one easy way to achieve both. 

"I want to be remembered as someone who was good at his job."

For all of Magnus’ wallowing, his reaction to Alec’s reply isn’t polite – he snorts. "That's what you want? 'Alec Lightwood – good at his job' scrawled on your gravestone?" 

"No, that's not what I meant–" why does Magnus always do this, takes words that are not there and twists the ending? 

Alec stops again, taming his frustration to concentrate on piecing together the right words to convey exactly what he wants to say. _What would happen to the Institute when he's not there? Who would miss him?_ Alec's first thoughts races to parents, Izzy, Max... and Jace. It's a complicated swell of emotions that hit him – that he wouldn't want them to feel sad (he can't stand seeing Izzy's tear-streaked face), nor would he want them to feel angry (Jace's face contorted in anger floats to the surface of his mind) – that he'd want them to first and foremost be _proud_. Proud of his contributions, and proud to call him a shadowhunter, their son, their brother. The worst possible scenario would be to die knowing that he'd had let his family down, dying a disgraceful death, succumbed to preventable things such as treatable illness or stupidity – dying from anything that didn't either protect his family or continue to defend this realm from the evils that threaten it. 

"I want to be remembered as someone who's made a positive difference," he says at last, slowly, deliberately. “As a good shadowhunter, a good son, and a good brother.” 

Once again, Magnus is quick to jump on his response. "And all those things are mutually inclusive? Those concepts don't necessarily equate to the same thing." 

"They do to me," Alec says fiercely. 

And it does. The roots of the Lightwood name run deep into the story of the nephilim, centuries old and ingrained within shadowhunter culture, so persistently interwoven, Alec doesn’t know where the present begins and history ends. Shadowhunting is a family business that Alec can't imagine where this isn’t a part of his life, his being; it defines him as it does with his family. To be a good person is to be a good son and brother; to be a good brother is to be a good shadowhunter and to be a good son is to be a good shadowhunter – an easy circle of cause-and-effect.

With the finality of Alec's statement, Magnus stops with this line of questioning. They sit quiet after that.

Alec is disturbed out of his thoughts when Magnus breaks the stillness once again, saying almost boldly, "Another question, if you wouldn't mind." It's purely rhetorical; Magnus doesn't deign Alec a chance to say yes or no and instead, hammers persistently on, "Do you fear death?"

Alec doesn’t like this line of questioning, the 'why' uncomfortably left unanswered, raising discomfort in his mind. He asks Magnus, hesitant, “Where are you going with this exactly?”

Magnus raises an eyebrow, “Afraid to answer?”

“No. No I’m not – I just…” Alec purses his lips. Something creases in his brow, and he decides to answer Magnus’ question, so he doesn’t have to continue this other, more embarrassing line of thought. “No. I’m not afraid of death.”

Magnus is startled by Alec's certainty, brows furrowing into deep-set lines that weave the space between his eyes. "Why not?" Magnus asks. His tone is rife with disbelief. 

"I’m a shadowhunter. I knew the risks when I signed up for the job, ever since I spoke the oath when I was ten: _‘I pledge myself in Covenant as a Nephilim, and I pledge my life and my family to the Clave of Idris.'_ It’s something all shadowhunters are required to go through.”

"There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don’t even know where to be begin,” Magnus says as he shakes his head in what looks to be intense disapproval. "So you’re telling me, you haven’t been afraid of death since you were ten."

It’s been a long time since his first mission – it’s been so long that when Alec thinks back, he can’t exactly remember his first mission with full clarity; he must have been almost eleven he thinks, and what he does recall is only in bits and pieces. He does remember the mission objective – some pudgy lowball mission to go track down the nest of a particularly nasty infestation of shax demons, perfect for young recruits to get their feet wet – but he can’t exactly place his feelings at the time, whether it was primarily fear or excitement that coursing through him (he thinks it's likely both, that familiar, heady mix pumping adrenaline into his veins). 

He also remembers who led the mission – Alistair Elbright, shadowhunter extraordinaire, ranked top of his class, selected and groomed for admission into the special operations division (one of the highest honours – Jace was seething with jealously). It's almost in reverence that Alec can remember the finesse in which Alistair fought with – a burst of speed; a well-timed slash; quick, methodical movements as his stele raced across his skin – an almost lazy competence that made his seraph blade appear as a natural attachment of his own limb. 

Alistair had however, passed away a couple years ago, in the midst of gruesome battle with a greater demon. 

A terrible loss but an honourable death – and Alec had grieved, even as he had known that this is the end that will befall most of their ranks.

“Well, of course I probably was a little bit scared," Alec says as he rubs at his shoulder, shrugging out of his reverie, "It's right before you go on your first ever mission, after all. But as you grow up, gain more experience, you learn to tame it, push it down. There’s nothing bad about dying in the line of duty, fighting to protect everything you love and all that is good."

"But what's the point?" Magnus asks. "You’re never going to win. Demons and evil will always exist."

"That's just it. It's because demons and evil will always exist, that's we need to keep fighting. There will always be a need, generation through generation, for us to keep on fighting, to help protect the people who can't defend themselves."

Magnus eyes sharpen at this and he says, "And that brings me to the second thing that's so unfathomable, so _stupid_ about what you do – how can you devote your whole life and your future family's lives to something that’s unending where you’re just an insignificant cog in a machine you don’t even understand? Something so thankless where you’re never going to get the ultimate satisfaction? Don’t you fear that in your lifetime, you will never end up doing something for you?" 

It's Alec's turn for disbelief. " _The satisfaction_? This isn't some – some stupid crusade to be rewarded with gold or status, or inflate our own egos, Magnus. This isn't something meant to make you feel good about yourself. It's a duty, it's a job – to ensure that you've done everything in your power to do good and done right by others."

The acidity in Alec's tone spurs Magnus on, as he spits back, " _Done right by others?_ That’s a bunch of bullshit, shadowhunter, and you know it. Who put you in this role, to be our guardian and our saviour of what is holy and good? You decided this – you decided that you wanted to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders when no one is forcing you to." 

"When you have the capabilities, the skills to make a difference, _you do it_. It’s not a choice to make – it’s just the right thing to do. You need to be responsible for something,” Alec retorts. “To be accountable to others – it's what makes a good person." 

“But you don’t need to be responsible for _everything_. To live is… you first must know who you are – and to be content with yourself. You need to be responsible for _you_ and your own happiness. No one is going to fight as hard for you, take care of you, except for _you_.” 

“I know who I am,” Alec replies bluntly, “and I know my purpose. I wasn’t put on this earth to ‘live’ like that Magnus. That isn’t… that isn’t living to me. I’m here to serve, to protect.” He says this firmly, thinking about his family as he does. 

Magnus just stares at him, eyes filled with another emotion that Alec wouldn’t think that he’d ever see – pity. "You sad, pathetic shell of a man. Who taught you to think like this, shadowhunter? Who raised you to think yourself so small, with a wind-up pin in your back and ice water in your veins?” Alec feels his mouth stretch into a thin line, but Magnus continues anyways, his voice going soft, “I'm not saying that other people don't matter, Alec. But how can you help others, when you aren’t even good to yourself?" 

“Well, I don’t know, Magnus,” Alec’s voice rises, to the point where he’s almost yelling, “Why don’t you ask all the people I’ve helped in the last ten years? The people we saved from the shax demon attack on Grand Central? The mundanes who get to live their lives in peace because I'm not 'good to myself’? You’re not in a position to tell me I haven’t helped others when– ” 

They both jump in their seat at the sound of a sudden knock echoes through the room, as a muffled voice is heard through the thick metal door saying, “It’s time.” 

Magnus’ leniency hearing. Alec had almost forgotten.

They turn away from the door to look at each other once more, the mounting tension suddenly broken. Magnus unfurls himself from his seat, shrugs his clothing straight, and as he stands, he says, "Let's just agree to disagree, shadowhunter." 

He then starts walking to the door without a second glance in Alec’s direction.

As Alec watches Magnus' retreating frame, Alec grips the chair’s armrests tight as frustration balls up and implodes, turning into wisps that float and land in the pit of his stomach, an uncomfortable burn that churns his insides. Alec’s not sure what this conversation was and how it got there – how he let this bastard poke and prod him exactly where it stings, to the point where he’s rendered catatonic, sitting numbly in his chair as he watches Magnus’ retreating frame approach the door. 

He’s embarrassed – this isn’t what he was assigned to do – to let this felon get under his skin. 

He shakes out of the fog when he reaffirms who he is – his goals, his values. _For family. For good_. When he stops staring at his hands and looks up, he sees Magnus is about a foot away from the door. He can’t help but to call out to the narrow line of Magnus’ shoulders, Alec’s voice ringing hollowly in the room, "And are you? Are you afraid of death?" 

Magnus stops in his tracks, but doesn’t turn back. "Of course I'm afraid, Alec,” he says slowly. “I’ve lived for 400 years, but I’m still only a man." 

\--

The sight of someone in the cemetery on the tenth Thursday is unusual to Alec, as everyone has usually emptied themselves out of its walls by the time evening strikes, chased out by the flickering daylight and a chill has settled over New York, the one that made autumn pack up its colours and keep its citizens off its streets. The biting winds are intense in its assault that chaps Alec's lips and gnaws at his ears, both turning unhealthy hues of pink.

When Alec fully enters the cemetery, approaching the figure as an unintended by-product, Alec easily identifies that the visitor is a man, maybe a pastor, a griever – kneeling silently in front of a tombstone, head bent and hands locked, intent in prayer. Even from afar, austerity rolls off the man's crouched form in waves, tumbling out of his sombre black suit, cut perfectly to match all his straight lines, its dark collar raised stiff against his neck that cuts severely in contrast against his skin. 

Alec can feel the bones in his spine notch themselves straight – the realization of what a cemetery is supposed to be, makes him all too aware that he is an intruder here, that he doesn't belong. People who come to the cemetery are here to pay respects, not deal with villains and convicts – that he's walking through a collective space shared not only by angels and demons and everything in between, but mundanes too. People living in a world that's not necessarily his own. 

So Alec pays the figure no mind, walking a wide berth around the man with conscious steps (not like this man can even see him) – until a stern voice, yet cadenced and soft, says, “Stop, Lightwood.”

The man stands up as soon Alec walks past him, his face hidden in the curtain of tangled branches of the overgrown willow, the one with its roots spread wildly, burrowed deep into the back corners of the cemetery. It's only when the man stands, when Alec sees the contrast of his black, black suit, against his pale, pale skin – almost translucent to Alec’s sight, even underneath the warm brown colouring – does it become apparent – _vampire_. 

Alec already has his bow notched and loaded as soon as the man takes his first step forward, his bowstring pulled as far as it can go. 

It's not that he hates vampires so much as it is that everything about them makes Alec uncomfortable – the hedonistic nature of their unnatural living, the sex, the blood and gore – everything that reminds of him of the things that go bump in the night. 

The man makes no indication of stopping, his footsteps making no sound in the soft grass. He says, "Alec Lightwood, do you not know who I am?"

As the vampire approaches with long, lean strides, Alec is on guard; he holds his ground as his mind races, trying to place this face – or any other of his features that could possibly be telling – from the impossibly straight line of his back, or the gold cross that glints at his neck. It's only when he finally steps out from the shadows and into the grey that surrounds the cemetery like a misty blanket, does Alec finally recognize him – this vampire has been to the Institute before. "You're the leader of the DuMort Clan."

He stops a good three feet in front of Alec before he finally introduces himself. "I guess that's one of my titles, yes. Raphael Santiago." He doesn't extend a hand.

The name rings a bell almost immediately and drudges up a recent memory of his mother complaining about this man amidst the Clave-mandated rezoning of certain downworlder boroughs. The name particularly sticks out because of that livid tone his mother had used when she referred to him as "arrogant demonic filth, with a stick shoved so far up his ass he's probably _this close_ to staking his own heart", under her breath. 

So of course, Alec remembers Raphael Santiago, leader of the DuMort Clan. 

Alec lowers his bow slightly (but grips it tighter), as he spits out, "Why are you here?"

Raphael is a picture of indifference, completely unruffled, as he calmly says, "I need some information. About someone in your custody." His voice is starting to grate at Alec's nerves, too silky, too smooth – like a hiss of snake that coils deep in his ear. 

"What are you talking about?"

Raphael gives Alec a shrewd glance, which can only be interpreted as 'don't fuck with me'. “No need to pretend. Magnus Bane."

And it's like that, the utterance of _that_ name, which triggers an immediate reaction in Alec; his bow is up again, fully extended, with the arrowhead aimed straight towards Raphael, trained right between the space between his eyes.

Something that feels like danger ignites fear into Alec – it’s the hot and angry kind he hates, the kind that makes it hard for him to think. He demands, "Who the hell told you this? Tell me right now."

Raphael doesn’t even flinch at the sight of Alec's bow, as he starts walking again, gliding through the grass towards Alec with brisk steps. "I don't think you understand, shadowhunter. This isn't a negotiation." 

Raphael's voice is oddly tight as he continues, "I once knew this man, a generous man, who made a promise. A promise he didn't have to make, or need to keep. He took me in, raised me as his own – he made me human again." 

Raphael winds tighter, a strain stretching out his words. "Because of this, he is my family. And I'm sure you can understand," Raphael says as he gives Alec this weighted look, laden with something that feels like mutual understanding, but looks so much more dangerous than that, "you do anything for family."

Alec needs a moment to process what Raphael has told him because what he is saying doesn't align perfectly with what Alec knows about Magnus. It just doesn't add up. Is Raphael talking about the same Magnus Bane who makes it his personal mission to aggravate Alec to the point where he wants to tear our his hair, the Magnus Bane who’s a sexual deviant with hundreds of depraved lovers, who can't settle on being faithful to one (Alec had went into Magnus' file last week, purely for research purposes of course, and tried to do a count, only to stop at 78), not to mention, the Magnus Bane who's currently locked up in the Silent City for murder? 

_Make him human?_ Alec almost wants to scoff at the incredulity of it all. 

But while Alec can't believe everything this man says about Magnus, what he can interpret is his tone. This vampire in front of him is dead serious. He strikes Alec as someone who will only say what he needs to say, and will only say what he means. There's a weight to each word that contrasts his soft voice that's slightly jarring to Alec – but Alec gets it – when this man says he will do anything for family. Even though they have only spoken for the past few seconds, Alec firmly believes that this man will stop at nothing for his family. It's something that Alec can respect Raphael Santiago for, but at the same time, wires him rigid with this unyielding tension to be on the end of it, his limbs almost locked in place. 

But a murderous warlock, being family with a vampire? Alec knows what family is, that it doesn’t have to be bound by blood or creed, but he thinks Raphael must be mistaken somewhere – that family doesn’t just mean repaying a debt or keeping a promise. There's easily a missing piece in Raphael's story that acts like a full stop for Alec, which layers an additional level of doubt that's preventing him from giving this man what he wants. 

Alec doesn't know how to respond to all of this, these conflicting reactions, so he brandishes his weapon once again, shaking out any remaining fear that clings numbly in his limbs. 

Raphael has not stopped moving in all this time, closing in with such a relentless speed that he's right in front of Alec now. He almost seems blind to Alec's weapon, until he presses his forehead directly into the sharp point of Alec's arrow, breaking skin, a dot of blood starting to well in the cut. "Let me give this to you straight, Lightwood. I will do anything for family," he presses his forehead further towards Alec, the blood starting to trickle downwards like a single red tear, "And this is only a taste of how far I will go." 

While Alec can feel the strain that underlines his words, Raphael's face is the picture of calm. It's unsettling – Alec doesn't do anything, neither moving forward, nor moving back, as he watches the red line streak steadily down Raphael's face, like a mask divided into two. 

He instead says, "And this is how far you'll get, unless you want to take another step further and do my job for me." 

"Just think about it," Raphael whispers back. He is not afraid.

"No." Alec is firm. He’s not afraid either.

"Just think about it," Raphael says again, eyes further darkening, steeling with resolve. He says this, in that same lilting tone, syllables soft and rounded at the edges, like a slurred lullaby that makes Alec want to close his eyes and just _listen_. 

"No," Alec wavers. He’s getting distracted. There’s something enrapturing about Raphael’s eyes.

Alec's startled out of the feeling when he hears a painful screech of distressed brakes on hot rubber a short distance away, from somewhere behind the cemetery walls. _Encanto,_ thinks Alec, and it's enough to Alec out of it, stumble back, reemphasizing his choice with a decisive, gasping, " _No_."

In an instant, Alec feels Raphael’s hand close painfully over his, fingers holding the arrow firm in place with a bruising grasp. 

Raphael says, "I don't give up that easily, shadowhunter. Patience is a virtue in which I've been a long, dedicated student. We will meet again, and the next time," Alec can feel his hand release, the crushing pressure finally elevated likely to leave indentations in his skin, as Raphael disappears from his sight, only for him to hear that same soft voice from somewhere behind him, whisper harshly in his ear, "I expect a different answer." 

Then in an instant, Raphael is gone, flashes by Alec in a blur out of the cemetery – like a fleeting thought escaped into the wind.  


\--

It's that same tenth Thursday in which Alec realizes that today was probably the shittiest of Thursdays in the history of Thursdays, given all things considered. He thinks it all started when his customary alarm doesn’t go off at 5:50am, which he attributes as the only reason why Jace easily whoops his ass in their morning training session, and why he's allocated archiving duty for next week. He hasn't knocked anything off his list of to-do's either; his work has been interrupted by a chain of unproductive face-time meetings he's been stuck in all day, the Seelie Queen pulling another one of her stints where she threatens to leave the alliance bound together by the Accords, and that serial murderer who dismembers bodies of his downworlder victims decides to re-emerge, all on this very Thursday.

And to top it all off, the evening hasn't gone much better – he's been propositioned to ( _threatened_ , his mind corrects for him) by a vampire, and Magnus has been in this questionably cheeky mood, haranguing Alec the whole hour before his hearing with the most mortifying of questions about how long it takes for Alec to slide into his tight, tight pants and the colour of his underwear (Alec's cheeks grow hot as he says, "This is sexual harassment, Magnus. I abstain to all of this.") 

And now there's something going on at Idris that day, where the guards gruffly tells them after Magnus' hearing that they need to wait _even longer_ , without any explanation and without any indication of what exactly ‘longer’ means – which Alec can only infer that it's going to be a while before they can trek back to the Silent City, and Alec can finally, finally go home and crash into his warm and cozy bed. 

Magnus on the other hand, seems delighted by the turn of events. Alec doesn't blame him – the Silent City is a terrible, awful place, and no one wants to be there longer than they have to. 

As soon as the guards leave and the door shuts with a resonating soft click, Magnus turns to Alec. "Tell me about your family, Alexander,” Magnus starts, immediately dispelling whatever silence remained in the room, as if all of the noise was chased away, tailing the guards as they left. He’s casually slouched over in his chair, leaning into the synthetic backrest, arms resting on the arches of metal that contain him on either side, and his legs spread wide. 

The mention of ‘family’ worms uneasiness into Alec’s mind, and he frowns. "That's not a question. And it's Alec." 

There’s an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu at Magnus’ question that raises a red flag somewhere in Alec’s subconscious – tugs uncomfortably at the part of his brain that picks up on danger and unhappy coincidences – how Magnus is asking about things that tap too closely into the vein of what Raphael had spoken about only a couple hours before. _There’s something going here_ , it whispers to him almost ominously, _keep on your guard, warlocks and vampires were always the devious ones_ , and it seems to imply something sinister, a suggestion on the brink of warning, that makes Alec just want to keep his mouth shut, to lock his lips and fold his arms; protect himself – to stay obstinately quiet because he’s really not in the mood to entertain Magnus today, and be subject to his little games. 

Magnus however, is never in the mood for quiet nowadays – he doesn’t seem to notice Alec’s discomfort, and instead, huffs dramatically. " _Shadowhunters_. Always so obsessed with technicalities." He then gives Alec a sly look, before he also adds, “And that's what I said, _Alexander_." 

Alec tightens his grip, fingers digging into his biceps, mouth stretching in a thin line. He ignores Magnus in favour of glaring at the blinking red light of the camera, tucked away in the left corner of the room.

“What’s got your panties in a twist today? Bad day at the office?” Magnus is still smirking at him with gleaming teeth, Cheshire grin so wide that it nearly swallows his whole face. 

Alec’s lips thin even further. Magnus isn’t usually like this – why the hell is he so happy today? Is there some inverse correlation, where there’s a negative relationship between Magnus’ happiness and his own? Or is it just because it’s that obvious that this Thursday is completely kicking his ass? 

Magnus has never made things easy for him so Alec knows he needs to regain control of the situation here, to show that Magnus’ taunts aren’t making its way under his skin before the conversation spirals completely out of control and Magnus starts asking things, other things that Alec likely doesn’t want to talk about. 

“You can’t ask me anything else today. You’ve already wasted all your questions,” Alec says. Hopefully this stops him. 

It doesn’t. To this, Magnus sits up, straightens himself out and shrugs out whatever kept him pressed into his seat. Magnus leans forward, his face sliding closer and closer into Alec’s vision to the point where Alec can’t stare at anything but gold, and says, tone losing all its playfulness, “You know, we can just talk. There’s nothing wrong with just talking.”

Alec doesn’t say anything in response. What is he supposed to say? The way this is going encroaches upon the bank of the terms of their agreement; they’ve agreed to three questions and three answers, not pleasantries and teasing and _conversation_. 

“I can tell you about my family, if you like,” Magnus continues. 

Magnus pauses, seeming as if he were waiting for some sort of acknowledgement from Alec so for him to press on, but Alec continues to say nothing. He feels like he’s being played – suspicions building. He’s not going to be trapped again, found guilty with a heavy weight on his conscience for saying the wrong things. 

But the emphatic ‘no’ Alec is trying to convey with his silence isn’t coming across, almost like a message lost in zero decibel static – and it's like they're keyed into two different frequencies, such that Alec's silence is taken by Magnus as a go-ahead, treated as some sort of indication to start his monologue because Magnus just starts talking, and doesn’t seem to want to stop. 

“Family wasn’t something I expected to have the fortune of having in my lifetime,” Magnus starts, meeting Alec’s silent gaze. “Not the blood kind, I mean. The real kind. The one that they always show in the movies – the warm ones, the types that make you cringe with how _fake_ it seemed – full of that sugary crap, that preach to its audience lessons of trust and honesty and acceptance.” 

“But I have it. Had it. I’m a selfish creature, Alexander – so to this day, I’m still not sure what I did right to deserve them.” Magnus says, as he shakes his head – there’s a small smile on his face. “No, I’m pretty sure I still don’t deserve them.” 

“The people that I consider as my family... I trust them with my life. I've lived 400 years and they have always been there for me, helped me in my time of need. They’ve seen me at my best when I was practically considered royalty, when I almost literally had the world in the palm of my hand.” He fiddles with his hands as he says this, a finger tracing a red mark over one of his knuckles. "But they've also seen me at my worst, my most vulnerable, at the edge of heartbreak and when the loneliness had become too much.”

“Where are they now?” Alec interrupts, curious despite himself. “If they’re always there for you, I mean.”

“Well, one of them is dead,” Magnus says pointedly. Alec clears his throat and looks away – but Magnus just sighs. “It’s been fifteen years, Alec. I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know. All I can hope is that they’re as far away from this as possible, and they’re living happy, fulfilling lives that they deserve.” Something sly tugs at the edge of his mouth, and that gleam in his eye returns, as he says, “Even if you knew who they were, you wouldn’t tell me anything, would you?” 

Alec says nothing. 

“Let’s just say that I’ve come to terms that I’ve lived a good life before this. The world is an amoral, unforgiving place – it’s neither on your side, nor against you – so always make the best of its coincidences, and appreciate serendipity when fate takes mercy on you and grants you the opportunity to meet someone amazing who changes your life. It’s granted me with the four most pivotal moments – on March 18, 1734 in London, on June 7, 1751 in Spain, and on September 17, 1953 in East Harlem.” The dates roll of Magnus’ tongue easily. 

Alec puzzles over what Magnus has said for a moment, then frowns. "That's three dates, Magnus. Not four."

"Hm. You're right. Well, I guess three then. I'm glad to see you're paying attention." He glances at Alec curiously, before he says, “Anyways, goes to show that you find family in the most unsuspecting of places." 

Alec makes a noise in acknowledgement. He can agree with that. 

"Yeah? Thinking about someone in particular?" Magnus asks casually.

There’s an awkward pause. Alec weighs his options – whether revealing this piece of himself will somehow lay the beginning of his path to ruin. 

Alec hesitates before he admits, "My parabatai. My brother."

Magnus doesn’t acknowledge the silence that lingers in the air, that hangs like a grey cloud, and instead asks, "He's your best friend, I gather?” as if it’s some normal question, as if Alec hadn’t just revealed something so completely telling. 

"Best friend?" repeats Alec. He hasn't heard that term in a long, long time. "What are we, five?"

"Maybe. Avoiding the question is quite a common tactic used by five year-olds, I hear."

Alec can’t help it – a small grin escapes past his lips. "Well I guess he's my best friend, yeah. We've been through a lot together."

“Oh? I don’t think anything you could possibly say can top the time Ragnor, Cat, and I ran a guano smuggling operation off the coast of Peru though.”

“Probably not,” Alec admits. He knows that Magnus is fishing – but Alec won’t give him the satisfaction of a telling response. “But from my experience, its sometimes the simplest moments that are the most memorable, that are worth the most.”

While Alec has known Jace for a shorter time than his blood family, for only a little bit more than half his life, every time he tries to quantify the hours he’s spent with Jace, its startling that it always feels like a millennium – or a duration of time which lasts longer than what possibly exists. And maybe it’s the quality of those hours which makes it feel like a stretch of time for Alec – the breadth of experience in which they’ve shared – close scrapes, choice decisions, and the exhilaration of being with someone who gets you in the thick of it all – but to Alec, nothing feels precious, more valuable, than those ordinary moments that took time for him to learn how to appreciate. 

Those quiet morning practices, when they lay on the padded mats after a good bout of training, clutching their sides and heaving air into their lungs; those late evenings, working silently at their terminals side by side, sharing a buffet of bad Chinese food, neck deep in research about their latest case – he can’t help but find himself going back to these moments in his memory, and reliving them over again and again.

Magnus sighs. "You sound a lot like Ragnor sometimes," he says quietly. He closes his eyes and looks incredibly pained. 

"What?"

Magnus opens an eye at him, a golden iris staring deeply at him, dulled by the fluorescent that buzzes above them. "If you weren’t a shadowhunter and a naïve bigot, you and Ragnor would have gotten along like a house on fire. That’s probably why I hate you so much."

“I don’t think I understand,” Alec says slowly. 

Magnus doesn’t immediately respond. He purses his lips, and tugs as at his ear before he explains, “Ragnor was practical. Serious. A bit of a sourpuss, really. He thought I was always all over the place – crazy, he called me sometimes, when I dragged him on my adventures, when all he wanted to do was hide away in his London home and read.” Magnus voice goes small, “But all he wanted was the best for me. He was so kind, a good– ” 

Magnus stops himself, startled out of speech – a few seconds before they hear the warning knock at the door. A sign that it's time to go.

Alec looks at his phone. 11:47. He grimaces and gets up from his chair, shoving his hands into his pockets. He glances over to Magnus who looks dazed, unwilling to get up from his seat. “Let’s move.”

“Oh?” Magnus blinks rapidly, and the expression on his face slides out from something akin to surprise, into schooled apathy. Magnus pulls himself from his seat, and whines, “Already? We were having such a grand old time, the pair of us, such riveting conversation.”

Alec sighs. He’s drained from today – tired from the mental exercise of gleaning any sort of insight into Magnus’ motives through his words. “Magnus. I want to go home.”

Magnus pouts and murmurs something under his breath as he struggles to drag himself out of the seat. 

It’s only when Magnus is fully standing does something on the floor catch his eye. 

"Hold on… What's this?" Magnus says as he bends over, his fingers nearly brushing the scuffed cap of Alec’s leather boots. Alec jumps back, hand firmly on the hilt of his seraph blade. 

It’s only when Magnus rises again with a small purple flower plucked up from the floor, does Alec slightly relax, fingers releasing the cold metal from his grip. Magnus holds it right under the bloom, twirling it between his fingers, and looking at it as if it were the most delicate, precious thing. 

"Oh, it must have caught in my clothes or something."

Magnus gives him a quizzical look. "If you say so. Jasmines aren't really common in New York."

"Well you can pass it here, I can chuck it on my way out," Alec says holding out his palm. 

Magnus comes over to him with tentative steps, but hesitates even further as he places it into Alec’s hand, fingers hovering at the short jut of the stem, not letting go. "If you would, Alexander... let me keep this perhaps? I haven't seen something living and green in a really long time." 

It's now Alec's turn to hesitate. Magnus wouldn't be able to cause any damage, hurt someone with a flower... could he? Alec inspects the flower, as if there’s a secret hidden within the gentle dip of the opening, a mystery in its petals. There’s an awkward moment of silence between the two of them again, before Alec scolds himself for being so paranoid – _it’s just a flower, Alec_ – there really isn’t anything there. 

He says, slowly, "Yeah… sure. I'm sure there's no harm in it."

The smile that Magnus gives him almost blinds him in its brightness. In an instant, Magnus looks ten times healthier – the lines in his skin fade, there's a glow to his skin, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. And then he says " _thank you_ " with so much heart and so much emphasis – it's so different from that biting tone that Magnus usually uses that Alec can tell that he really, truly, means it. This meaningless, tiny trinket – this flower that probably caught in the back of Alec's hood as he walked over here – means _this_ much to him. Alec doesn't understand it, but takes it as a win anyways.

Alec mutters out an embarrassed, "don't worry about it," as Magnus tucks the flower behind his ear.

"No really, Alexander," and he reaches forward, tentatively, his palm hovering over Alec's outstretched one only for a moment, before he takes Alec's hand. "Thank you." 

Alec's hand is still warm when Magnus lets go.

\--

When Alec arrives back at the Institute at 12:33am, he's exhausted and dead on his feet. He wants to go to sleep, but he has things to do – to finish his remaining status reports from last week, review the new training modules, and sign off some items they need to send over to the London Institute – Alec hasn’t even had to time to skim it over to even have a clue as to what they could be about. And _archiving_ , Alec groans internally, two fingers pressed deep into his temple as he walks briskly through the halls of the Institute.

“Hey, big bro, slow down,” someone’s warm hands envelop his own – and when he looks to his side, he sees Izzy tucked under his arm, her eyes warm and smiling bright. “Long time no see.”

“Hey Iz,” He squeezes her shoulder, a little tighter than usual. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? You’re not on night shift until next week.”

She accepts Alec’s one shoulder hug, and in reciprocation, squeezes his hand as they continue walking towards Alec’s room. “I could be saying the same to you. When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

“I slept yesterday,” Alec says, and only continues when Izzy gives him a knowing look, “for four and a half hours. Look, I can’t help it if one of my assignments keeps me locked up in one of their holding rooms with a felon into the night. Maybe you can send a fire message to the Clave, petitioning to them that Alec Lightwood needs some vacation, to catch up on sleep.” 

“Don’t joke with me, Alec,” she says as her eyes narrow deviously, and a smirk coats her lips – a dangerous expression, akin to the one that Izzy wears when she tells Maryse that she is going _out_. “You know what I’m capable of, and this isn’t anywhere close to being out of bounds.”

“I know, I know,” Alec says as he pulls out his stele to unlock his door, “just trying to be funny.”

Izzy laughs at this. “You? Funny? When did you develop a sense of humour _hermano_? Never thought I’d see the day where you’d joke about the Clave.”

“Maybe I’m funnier when I’m tired.” Alec walks into his room, and collapses ungracefully into his bed, head muffled by his pillow. “By the angel, this crappy mattress is _amazing_.”

“You sure you’re okay?” Alec can hear the click of Izzy’s heels as she walks around his bed, and sits neatly on the edge. “Mission going okay? I miss our Thursday night chats.”

Alec pulls his head up from his pillow to look at Izzy. The look in her eyes is familiar to Alec – soft and tender, yet sharp and all-knowing all at the same time. He shifts to put his head in her lap. “I miss them too.”

They sit in silence for a while, as Izzy absently combs through his hair with her fingers. 

“Do you know how long your assignment’s going to last for?” she says at last.

“No,” Alec yawns. “The Clave hasn’t really told me anything about Magnus lately. He doesn’t say much about his hearings either.”

“Oh? Do you talk to him? I’ve always wondered what talking to a murderer is like.” 

“Izzy,” Alec warns. He tries to sit up but he’s tired – and Izzy won’t let him, the firm pressure of her palm keeping his head in place. 

“I’m kidding. I’m smarter than that.” 

“Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

And Izzy swats at his shoulder before they lapse into a comfortable silence again.

In the quietness, Alec feels the tiredness seep into him even deeper, a heavy blanket that makes him lethargic and slow. He wants to close his eyes for two minutes – just two – but as his eyelids close, he’s immediately greeted by the memory of golden eyes in the darkness of his limbo, in whatever space exists between consciousness and unconsciousness, jolted awake by the strange sadness and anger he recognizes in them – the same expression Magnus wore when he spoke about his friend. 

There’s an awful tension in Alec’s shoulders and a weight in his chest that he doesn’t realize he’s been harbouring until now – his body hyperaware of inconsistencies that his mind had trouble recognizing. _There’s something wrong here_ , it tells him, that he’s amidst a puzzle in which he’s missing half the pieces, and the missing final image to go with it. 

“Do you think… in any capacity, I would be able to kill Jace?” He speaks aloud, almost nonchalantly. 

Before Alec can even blink, Izzy’s hand is grasping his chin and forcefully making him turn to face her. When he looks up, all he can see is Izzy – her eyes searching, serious – as her eyebrows knit together, the concern evident in her expression as her dark hair frames her face. “No, Alec! Why would you even ask such a thing?”

“I just... I…” he sighs, tired. “I don’t know, Izzy. The more I talk to Magnus – something doesn’t feel right about this.” 

“No. Just no. He’s your parabatai, your brother. Your family. Even if Jace was the one telling you to go through with it, you wouldn’t – no, you physically couldn’t. And even if by some series of unfortunate events, you did – you would never forgive yourself for it.” Izzy’s voice grows unapologetically cold as she says, “But you don’t know Magnus Bane, Alec. And we’ve all heard things – he’s dangerous. Not to be trusted.” 

“I _know_ that. It’s just… it seems weird, you know?” He turns away from her gaze. “They hurt him,” he whispers quietly. “They hurt people in there, Izzy, even though they’re already locked up.” He curls his knees towards himself, as he stares numbly at brightness of his desk light. It somehow brings him to think of Magnus again – Magnus’ smile he’d witness an hour before, youthful and bright.

Tenderness floods back into Izzy, as she rubs a soothing hand over his back. “Do you… do you want to do something about it?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Just… be careful alright?” She leans in close to whisper in his ear, “I’m always here for you, big bro. If you ever need to talk. Or do something about it.” 

Alec swallows – and the weight rises from his chest. “I know, Iz. I will,” Alec mumbles, his eyelids suddenly heavy with sleep. 

“I will,” he repeats, and focuses on the motion of Izzy carding through his hair – left, right, left, right. It isn’t long before he falls asleep.


	3. Part 1 - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FIRST THINGS FIRST - PLEASE CHECK TAGS AND RATING**.  
>  There are some hairy situations here revolving around consent in this chapter, so please, if this bothers you, I encourage you to skip out. Just keep in mind that I have thrown the characters into very tough, very different situations from canon - and in the story, I hope you can try and understand the reasons why they do what they do and say what they say.
> 
> Otherwise...  
> A new chapter to ring in the new year! I wanted to get this out there before work breaks my back and has its wicked way with me - as I unfortunately won't be able to write more until spring :( To appease you, please enjoy this chapter in the meanwhile, which is honestly my favourite C:
> 
> And as always, I am forever grateful for [bumblebeesknees](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebeesknees/pseuds/bumblebeesknees) for being my cheerleader, who give me that final push to let go of the brakes (and in the process, did not punch me in the face for doing a disgusting eng-lit style dream sequence). <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Twelve weeks ago, when the innocuous da-ding of Alec’s e-mail chimed through the speakers of his terminal, Alec thought escorting Magnus Bane to Idris was supposed to go something along the lines of this:  


1) Arrive at the Silent City promptly on Thursdays at 7pm.  
2) Be escorted by Brother Enoch – oh, Brother Isaac now, Alec keeps forgetting – to Magnus’ cell.  
3) Deliver Magnus to Idris to attend his leniency hearings without incident. (and when the Clave says “without incident”, it really means that no one on their side getting hurt)  
4) Wait silently for the Clave to summon Magnus.  
5) Wait again for the proceedings to finish.  
6) Escort Magnus back to the Silent City, “without incident”.  
7) Rinse and repeat.




And for the most part, Alec’s followed that routine with very little variation week over week; as week one slides into two to three to six, and then when week ten slides into week eleven – nothing has really changed. Sure, there’s a small number of things Alec does to make things easier for himself – he arrives at 6:50 instead of 7 to escape the cold that chases him from the Institute that wants to dig deep into his bones; and sure, the journey to Idris isn’t exactly silent anymore, as Magnus now uses one of his questions to ask Alec how his day was, and the wait in the waiting room no longer feels long at all – Alec’s just adapting to the circumstances – but holistically, nothing has really changed.

And for this, Alec is grateful. Routine has always been something that grounded him, rooted him to an immovable centre where things are constantly flowing around him beyond his control – when there’s a new flavour of criminal every week, as his responsibilities shift and the Clave changes their mind, and at the same time, his sleep comes and goes like the tides do – it’s a welcome fixture that anchors him, even if it’s tied to something as dubious as weekly meet-ups with a murderer.

A supposed murder, Alec corrects himself. He’s been doing that a lot these days. 

Understandably, Alec expects nothing to change upon the twelfth week – that week twelve will be like the eleventh – where Magnus will ask his questions that cusps somewhere between a framework of innocent curiosity and connivingly personal, and Alec crafting his careful, yet poorly worded responses in return. There isn’t an indication that this week should be any different then the rest – the walk from the Silent City is as expected uncomfortable and quiet like it always has been, where Alec trudges along with Brother Isaac towards Magnus’ cell at 6:50pm. When they get there, Magnus makes his customary comment about how magical inhibitors are clearly such a _shadowhunter_ invention – invented with the sole intention of suppressing and hurting – as Alec inspects the hollows of Magnus’ wrists, the bones there too sharp, too prominent in Alec’s grasp. 

“Come on, Magnus, let’s go,” Alec says. “Don’t be difficult – please.”

“I’m not being _difficult_ – I’m only telling you the truth, shadowhunter. Do these fucking implants look _humane_ to you–” He turns to face Alec, waving his wrists back and forth in the air, his movement casting spidery shadows that skitter across the bars of his cell. 

Magnus stops abruptly however, when he catches a glance at Alec’s expression. He brings his arms down. “Well… since you said please. I’ll see what I can do.” He folds his hands behind his back, wrists open and bare, and turns back around. “Lead the way, Brother Isaac. Lead me to hell.” 

Maybe… maybe that was a little different this time, Alec thinks.

But when Alec trips over his own feet because he can’t see the ground (it’s so fucking _dark_ in the Silent City, Alec mutters through gritted teeth) and Magnus sniggers, Alec changes his mind and tells himself that it’s _not_ any different – it is, and will always be, the same. 

And the rest of the routine, the walk through the Silent City and the portaling over to Idris, is what Alec expects it to be – it’s consistent and boring and the _same_ ; it’s the best-case scenario and exactly what Alec wants. 

Magnus’ must also be in a ‘good’ mood today because he’s abnormally magnanimous towards Alec – after he asks his three questions (“How was your day, Alexander?”, “Meet anyone interesting?”, and “What’s your type – blonde, brunettes, or redheads?” in which Alec’s answers are “Good – busy”, “No, don’t even try Magnus”, and “Who gives a shit about that kind of stuff – their hair could be blue for all I care, they just need to be a decent person.”) he asks for nothing else – and they spend the remaining time in a comfortable silence in the white room with the white walls together, legs propped up on an empty seat in each other’s domain, knees marking the threshold – like a temporary ceasefire, as they each stare up at the ceiling above. Alec starts an endless count of the dark points on the ceiling, his hands on his stomach, that move up and down in pace with his steady breaths. 

Magnus gets up around the thirty-minute mark when they hear that echoing tang of a metallic knock at the door. Routine, usual, expected – Alec likes this. Alec nods in acknowledgement as Magnus hops over Alec’s legs to leave the room. “Don’t miss me too much,” Magnus says in passing, punctuating the sentiment with a wink. There’s nothing cruel or malicious to his words. 

“I won’t,” Alec rolls his eyes in response. 

Magnus grins back at him, teeth gleaming, before he turns around and joins the guards waiting for him at the door.

It’s a little bit different, Alec decides – but he doesn’t _not_ like it. He could get used to it, if he really had to. 

\--

If Alec’s thankful for anything on Thursdays, it’s the half-an-hour to an hour rare gem of time he’s uncovered when the Idris guards take Magnus out of his hands and into the actual leniency hearing with the Clave, a rarity amongst the compressed schedule in which Alec lives. It’s one beautiful hour of blissful solitude, where Alec can sink into one of the laminated brown chairs and release that coil of tension in his body – and he does this by either catching up with work, reading one more chapter of _the Art of War_ (Magnus saw Alec pull his copy out of his jacket pocket last week and nearly burst a gut laughing so hard about what a fucking cliché shadowhunters are), and bulleting 8-inch long to-do lists for the weeks to come. 

It’s surprising, even to himself sometimes, how much he can do in hour to himself. He wishes he had more of them. 

This twelfth Thursday is no different. The guards have left the door open for Alec, as they always do, so he can go about Institute business if he needs to, take a piss if he needs to – strangely considerate for a bunch of assholes who do nothing but shoot the shit because their titles of ‘protectors of the Clave’ permit them to take on those levels of pretentiousness, to be holier-than-thou, who gets off their rocks by smack-talking everyone and no one at the same time.

But it’s rare for Alec to leave the waiting room nowadays, and he finds himself not wandering the halls of Idris if he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t know at what point the overbearing plainness of the room has morphed from something that was stuffy, tense in its burdening artificial purity, into something that’s more serene and calming, but it has. Ironically, it’s comfortable, he thinks, even as Alec readjusts himself in his seat so he can stop feeling the metal framework of the chair wedged against his ass. He pulls his copy of ‘the Art of War’ from his pocket and slides his thumb into the pages, the book riddled with flags that it’s almost double its original volume; he flips to the last page he’s bookmarked. 

_In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity_ stares back at him.

Alec likes this. He flags the line and turns the page. 

Alec gets about halfway through chapter three before an angry yell disturbs his peace – an echo bouncing through the long corridor, bending the corner to cannonball into the waiting room, disrupting the stillness in a way that Alec thinks he almost sees all the dust motes billow around him. 

Alec frowns – yelling is never good. He pockets his book, and strides out of the room. 

When he clears the door, he sees two figures at the end of the hall. He approaches them at a soldier’s pace, his strides controlled and even, his footfalls scuffing quietly on the tiled floor.

Alec stops mid-stride when he hears a muted thump – something hard hitting something soft. 

And then Alec realizes its three figures at the end of the hall. 

His steps quicken; _thud_ goes his boots, each step heavy on the floor, and _thud-thud_ goes his heart, as it drops into his stomach, never surfacing for air.

“And you – filthy fucking warlock scum, think you can get away with speaking to me like that, like you’re worth something– ” 

_Thud-thud_.

“After all you’ve done – you’re a murderer, Magnus Bane, a traitor to your own disgusting people– ” 

_Thud-thud-thud_. Alec’s running now.

“That even your own people would even give you up– ” 

Before the guard can land the next blow on Magnus, Alec intervenes – grabbing his arm, twisting it behind his back. “Stop this, you need to stop this right now,” Alec seethes as he commands this guard to stand down.

The other guard turns to Alec, confused, as he simply asks, “Why?”

“ _Why_?” Alec’s tone implies it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Look at him, he can barely stand up – he’s just _bones_ ,” as Alec says this, he keeps his eyes trained on the other guard, averting his gaze so he can look anywhere but Magnus.

The guard in Alec’s grip grunts, and Alec has to let go. The guard turns to face Alec and says, scowling, “He called my family a swarm of inbred idiots, with brains the sizes of–”

Alec is already on the floor, helping Magnus up. As he slings Magnus’ arm over his shoulder, he smells the coppery tang of fresh scrapes and welling bruises. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just mouthy.” 

Alec gets up on a knee to stand, steadying Magnus. One of the guards block his path. “Lightwood, you need to put him in his place. The only reason that he thinks he can do this is because you let him.”

“No.” Alec gets up and pushes past him. 

“Lightwood, you– ”

“NO,” Alec roars, and is walking away with Magnus in tow, as fast as he can. The guards don’t follow.

“Are you… are you okay?” Alec finally asks, when they’re several feet away. He still can’t look at him. 

Magnus doesn’t say anything, but keeps walking forward with hobbling little steps.

“Magnus– ”

“You don’t need to help me,” Magnus whispers harshly, his shoulder pushing Alec away, and his voice scraped raw. 

Alec holds firm, but still can’t quite face Magnus. “Have you looked at yourself? If you think I will stand by and do nothing– ”

Magnus interrupts, “I told you, I don’t need your pity. You’re helping a murderer, Alexander. _Doesn’t that bother you_?”

Alec finally looks at Magnus, and he immediately regrets it. But he stares straight into Magnus’ eyes and doesn’t turn away. “Yes, it bothers me, but – whatever you did, you still don’t deserve this. This – this isn’t justice. This is just hate.” 

_No one_ deserves this. And in the time that Alec has gotten to know Magnus, he realizes that he’s come to believe that Magnus doesn’t deserve any of this, at all. It’s a dangerous belief to have.

A choked noise escapes from Magnus, and his body heaves – like he’s holding something in – before he drops his gaze. They keep moving closer and closer towards the exit, towards the Silent City.

“Don’t you dare look back,” Alec whispers to Magnus. 

“I never look back,” Magnus grits out, and his eyes are shining, wet with some unnamed emotion as he keeps going – only looking forward, and never looking back. 

\--

It’s the following Friday at 10pm. Alec’s at the Institute, at his spot, staring intently at his terminal, his screen blank and off. 

Fridays are a strange day for Alec, in which somehow all of the shadowhunters at the New York Institute formed the incorrect impression that it’s an off-day – that they’re owed an obligation of “leaving early”, in which they cash in on Fridays, since obviously, demons _also_ take breaks on Fridays, to go out for a drink, go out on a date, and party into the early hours of the morning – partake in the pleasures of the night. 

So Alec always chooses to work Fridays, so he can also, _partake in the pleasures of the night_. Namely, filing all his reports, doing a little research into his cold cases, and getting all of his shit done so he’s ready to go on Mondays – because he does glean a little pleasure in the preparation, so he can take more pleasure in the results. 

It’s a joke, he tells himself – sometimes though, he’s not so sure. 

But it’s always odd to be working on Friday evenings, for Alec not to hear the constant thrum of terminals buzzing around him, feel the energy of the room when there’s only about three of them at their stations – that it feels almost lonely here, as flurries drift past the panes of stained glass that encase their Institute, catching in the glow of the lights before tumbling into the snowbanks, and sneaking themselves into the crevices in the Institute’s curved arches as if looking for warmth, wanting to escape the cold.

Fridays are lonely. _Unlike Thursdays_.

His fingers hover over the power button of his terminal again. 

There is something bothering Alec that won’t let him leave his seat – and it brings him back here every time he steps away, when all he wants to do is get a bite to eat, blow off some steam by sparring at the gym – it’s like it’s a magnet and he’s the nickel, and he can’t shake whatever that invisible force is, pulling him back in. 

For the previous two hours, Alec had been staring at Magnus’ profile in a daze. It’s not that he needs to – Alec’s been over Magnus’ profile way too many times that he knows the first few lines by heart that he can recite them easily, _Magnus Bane, Warlock identification #W453, née ???, date of birth ??? (estimated 1600’s), place of birth: Indonesia, ex-high Warlock of Brooklyn_ – but every time Alec’s back here, back to soak in more information, he’s always amazed at the level of shocking detail it goes into – about Magnus’ careers, his lovers, his past lives, his trysts and misadventures – Magnus’ story written in about two thousand words, with remarkable clarity. 

It talks about how Magnus loves the colour red, and has an inexplicable endearment to rubies (wrong, Magnus likes purple sapphires, amber, and tourmaline – better magical properties and way less volatile), how he visits Indonesia often (wrong, Magnus _hates_ Indonesia and hasn’t been back in a century), and how he had a cat (half-wrong, Magnus had two cats – Chairman Meow and Church). 

Yet through all two thousand words of half-truths and unfactual facts, there’s only one line that describes Magnus’ murder of Ragnor Fell. And it’s so brief and neat in its delivery, that Alec nearly misses it the first time – because it simply goes like this: Magnus Bane killed Ragnor Fell in Ragnor’s London flat on September 24th. 

And that’s it.

Alec hovers again.

That combined with the incident that happened the day before – the words that the guards spat at Magnus, when he was on the floor.

 _That even your own people would even give you up_. 

And the words bounce around in Alec’s head, looping through his ears.

The power button stares back at Alec taunting, tempting. And Alec – Alec finally gives in. 

The Institute’s online library of old cases, profiles, and reports is hugely overwhelming to even the most experienced of shadowhunters – it’s too much information, the indexing is a little off, and the GUI isn’t exactly user friendly either – but Alec loves the system for it, in the way that it keeps out individuals who don’t have the patience for it, who don’t find a need to protect it – who don’t treat the information and history with the care and compassionate that it needs. 

Alec’s played enough with the system to know where to start – what prompts to feed it, coax out the information with skilled hands. But this, this is a _challenge_ – someone wants this hidden – and he’s into reports about _the benefits of London warlock brews and teas_ and _Institute protocols of engaging third-party contractors_ , before he comes anywhere close. He’s frustrated by the time he writes “*new” in the prompt bar, purely on a whim because no one, absolutely _no one_ should be leaving folders in the file directories with no names, but there it is – 229 folders – and he sighs as he painstakingly clicks into each ‘New Folder’, removing the ‘hidden files’ option as he goes along. 

Hope fades quickly when he reaches ‘New Folder #57’. And Alec’s desolate, a lesson well-learnt in sunk costs, by the time he hits ‘New Folder #100’, thinking he’s a complete and utter fool if he thinks that this is the way that data mining works. 

But when he clicks into ‘New Folder #138’ – and there, he fucking _can’t believe it_ – there’s one single document in there, labelled “opruby_mbane.img”. 

“Hey Alec– ” Someone touches his arm.

Alec immediately slams down on the power button and his screen winks off, black. He turns around.

It’s Jace. He’s giving Alec a questioning look. “What the hell are you doing still here? I’m pretty sure your shift’s over by now.”

“What do you mean, it’s only– ” Alec glances at the terminal clock. Shit. It’s 2:12am. 

“Alec, hey, look at me. Are you alright?” As Jace comes over and leans close, to inspect Alec’s face. “Your eyes are red, dude.” The leather of Jace’s jacket is emitting residual cold, and Jace smells like alcohol… and something else. Flowery, girly.

Alec rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just catching up. How’s Clary?” Distraction is easy once you know one’s weaknesses – and Alec knows Jace and his weaknesses.

Jace lets out a sound that Alec never thought he would hear from Jace’s mouth – a wistful, lovestruck sigh. “Alec. She’s… she’s the one. I know she is. She’s amazing, beautiful – so creative – we went to an art museum today, and we went to see a Botero exhibit. At first I was weirded out about the whole thing, because the paintings are like… kind of ugly but…”

Alec lets Jace prattle on, his eyes glued on his power button. He needs to open that document, and can’t really concentrate on anything else – especially on Jace who’s talking about paintings of fat babies right now.

Alec doesn’t realize that Jace has stopped talking until Jace waves his hands in front of Alec, trying to get his attention. “Alec. Are you even listening to me? When are you going to find someone who is like Clary to me?”

Alec snorts. That’s the least of his worries. “You know that’s not for me.”

“It _should_ be for you. I can feel that you’re unhappy, Alec. And it makes me worried. You shouldn’t be working at 2am on a Friday, slaving your life away.” Jace puts an arm over his shoulder, and its surprisingly warm – Alec can feel the lingering wetness of the melted snow seeping into his clothes. Jace’s voice crawls to a whisper so that no one else can hear, “I can always help you – help you find… guys you know–”

Alec doesn’t need this right now. He hates talking about this, feeling like there’s something wrong with him – and he hates that Jace also knows his weaknesses too. He shrugs off Jace’s arm, stung. “No, _no_. I’m good. Thanks, but no thanks. Don’t worry about me – I just gotta finish this.”

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Jace looks pointedly at Alec’s terminal. Jace isn’t as drunk as Alec thought.

Alec contemplates Jace’s offer – to tell Jace what exactly he’s looking for – it’s a tempting one. Everything is easier with Jace on the same page because they work that well with each other, because they know each other that well – brothers in oath and in experience. 

But this, this is different. The padlocks on the front door of this secret are strong with an impossible key, and behind this door, Alec doesn’t know what exactly will follow, and what could possibly lie beyond. There’s a probability and a possibility that it could destroy Jace’s future here, Izzy’s future here – take away Jace’s love and Izzy’s career, and everything that they’ve ever built in this Institute, Alec’s home – and it’s with absolute certainty, Alec concludes, that he needs to do this, but not by dragging anyone down with him. 

It’s not a risk he’d willing to take – if this is Clave business, there will be repercussions. And for this, he doesn’t want Jace, or Izzy, or anyone from his family for that matter to be involved – its his burden, and he needs to go at this alone.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” Alec repeats, hesitation stamped out of his voice. “I’ll… I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

“I’m always here for you, Alec.” Jace gives Alec one final pat on the back, before he shuffles towards his room. He raises an arm as he calls out, “Just let me know, yeah?”

When Alec finally can no longer hear Jace’s footsteps, the sound receding into the Institute, Alec takes a deep breath and flicks on his monitor.

And just as he left it, there sits in ‘New Folder #138’, opruby_mbane.img.

Alec clicks it. 

And his heart sinks. The whole file is a scan of a copy of a report, that’s been so heavily redacted save a few couple of words, the streaks of black swallowing up the words, sentences, and paragraphs whole. There’s nothing there that Alec doesn’t know – “Imogen”, “Ragnor Fell”, “Magnus Bane”, and “Herondale” – and Alec wants throw everything, for thinking that he could get anywhere, do anything, in just a single day. 

He smashes at the buttons of his mouse furiously, and the mouse, equally as furious, decides to be a disobedient piece of crap and jumps into autoscroll, the document flashes in a blur before his eyes.

Alec breathes deep – tomorrow, he consoles himself, snuffing out his frustration. Tomorrow, he’ll try again.

And then he sees it. He scrambles to stop his mouse. 

A signature. One signature. It’s not much but it’s still something. 

Alec immediately grabs a notepad and copies it down, does it three times, so he can get the flourished and looping scrawl just right. 

He then flies to his room and sends a fire message to Raphael.

\--

On the fourteenth week, Magnus somehow convinces the Clave that he’s in need a both a shave and a haircut. 

“What can I say,” he says almost smugly to Alec, "I can be quite convincing when I want to be."

Alec’s just glad that Magnus is more of himself again, and that the swelling has gone down.

But of course, the Clave can't allow Magnus to be in possession of scissors, razors, or anything that's sharp because, heaven forbid, Magnus decides to go commando and decides to stab a guard, or even worse, decides to concoct some ingenious escape plan using tools that are sharp as a plastic butter knife. 

And obviously, magic is completely out of the question. 

Thus, it's up to Alec to play barber today, something that his training never prepared him for, and something that he never expected that his shadowhunter duties would ever, _ever_ entail.

And when they meet each other outside the waiting room after the leniency hearing, the joy that Magnus is feeling is evident – it radiates off him in waves, spilling out of Magnus in the nuanced form of happier eyes, upturned lips, and a song he hums to himself under his breath. It’s as if Alec is catching a sliver of a reflection or a glimpse of what used to be; a man who walked the world taking in every joy and living in every sensation, an almost carelessness of someone who put his trust in fate to let the wind take him to wherever it needed him, where he needed to be. 

To think that all of this nearly snuffed out by… this, whatever this is – to crush it out of him by taking it all away, trapping him in a physical cage and an immortal body that just won’t die, that all it takes is a single _haircut_ to pull something out of him, to ebb some of pain and bitterness into something manageable and small. That Magnus now walks with that haunted look in his eyes, a darkness that gives root to this black cynicism to life, that he expects something to come running at him at every corner and take one more swing at him, and take one more thing away. 

But Alec’s trying to fix this – and he will do all that he can to make it right. 

Magnus settles himself into one of the seats of his row and looks expectantly at Alec with an honest-to-god smile on his lips, and something soars – hopeful, reaching – in Alec’s chest. All Alec can do is give Magnus in what feels like a weak smile back. 

Before Alec steps foot into the room, the guard presents a small silver tray in front of Alec, tools knolled over the flat surface with neat precision. It reminds Alec of a doctor's station prepped for surgery – up until one of the guards touches his shoulder firmly. 

Alec accidentally jostles the tray – and the tools go askew, comb and plastic razor now touching the scissors, the pot of shaving soap almost tipping over, and water splashing onto Alec's arm. 

The guard (its one of those assholes who nearly beat Magnus’ lights out – Alec’s frown deepens) gives Alec a look, annoyed, as Alec shakes out the surprise from his fingers, and takes the tray from him. “We'll be right outside if you need us, Lightwood,” the guard grunts. “Careful – the scissors are kinda sharp.”

And Alec can hear the guard shuffle away behind him, as the door swings closed with a resounding thud that rings with finality as it pushes the unwanted air out of the room. A soft click of the lock shortly follows.

Alec catches his reflection the surface of the tray, and he sees his nervous, tired eyes staring straight back at him. He can’t exactly place why he’s like this – nervous is an emotion that doesn’t look good on him. "Are you sure you want me to cut your hair?" he asks. He doesn't know who the question for – him or Magnus.

But Magnus takes responsibility and answers. "Of course, Alexander. I look like shit remember? Anything is better than _this_ mess." He gestures with sweeping hands over to his face and beard. At the same time, he’s watching Alec with assessing eyes, the yellow of his irises an intense shock of colour, particularly striking against the clean white walls and brown chairs that fill the room. 

"If you say so,” Alec says as he takes several steps forward, tray in hand. “Fair warning, there's a reason why no one in my family comes to me for fashion advice." Alec picks up the scissors, which, despite being somewhat sharp and weapon-like, feel foreign to him, an unusual weight in his hand.

Magnus just flashes a toothy grin, and tuts softly. "You just put the rest of your tools on your chair, Sweeney Todd, and hand me that tray."

Only after Magnus gives Alec a vague description of what he wants ("Johnny Depp circa 1990, something like Cry-Baby but without all that grease") and turns his back, does Alec fully get a glimpse of the challenge that lays ahead of him. 

Magnus' hair has grown long, uncontrolled in the past fifteen years, and it's a nest of messy tangles that reaches down his back. As Alec takes a strand of it in his fingers, catching in a knot – he notices the tendons in Magnus’ neck stretched taut, and the tension that's visible there, that circuits through the rest of Magnus’ body, that follows stiffly through Magnus's back and shoulders. 

Alec immediately lets go. In a tone that's searching instead of demanding, Alec says, "I'm holding the scissors.” With Magnus’ experiences with the guards, he wants Magnus to know.

Magnus doesn’t say anything to this. 

Patient, waiting, Alec continues, “I'm going to start, if you would let me." His voice is so soft now, he’s not sure if Magnus can hear him. 

However, Magnus' shoulders relax, and Alec hears the squeak of the metal in what he can deduce as Magnus releasing his grip from the tray. "Okay," Magnus whispers back, and Alec feels the tension releasing from his own body – relief soothing him like a tonic, that he’s… he’s gone and asked the right thing.

Alec places a gentle hand on Magnus shoulder as if to steady the both of them. He opens the mouth of the scissors, one of the blades held open pressed up lightly into the bones of Magnus' shoulder blades. Alec keeps his grip firm on the scissors as he says, again, soft, "Try to stay still." 

"Okay."

Alec holds his breath as he watches the blades clamp over – and it’s like an out-of-body experience, in which he’s witnessing everything from a distance – that he doesn’t feel his fingers move nor the cold metal in his hands; but what he does feel the ground shake beneath his feet when the dead weight of Magnus' hair falls to the floor, no noise. Magnus is completely still as the blades slide against through his hair following an invisible line, the division of the past and the future; like water, no resistance, the shedding away of fifteen years of forced neglect sheared off with one clean, efficient stroke. 

Two breaths release, and then silence. 

Alec doesn't move. 

"You can keep going," Magnus finally says, his voice cadenced with something husky, raspy – caught somewhere between his mouth and his throat. 

"Okay," Alec repeats back to Magnus. And he just keeps going. 

What Magnus wants for his hair is unnecessarily complicated; it’s fussy and involves maintenance and it’s everything that Alec doesn't want with his own. But Magnus is meticulous, an endless cycle of inspecting and preening then directing, as more hair falls to the ground and Magnus’ coif becomes shorter and shorter, neater and neater. Alec’s exhausted by the end of it, whereas Magnus is almost giddy with elation every time he checks his appearance in the reflection of the tray, a makeshift mirror – until he’s finally satisfied, running wet fingers through the cropped length then pushing back the top longer layers. Alec from behind catches sight of Magnus in the reflection of the tray.

And all Alec can think when he sees Magnus like this is that it’s like he's gone back fifteen years, and added another fifteen years added back to his ever-lengthy lifespan. This is as close as Alec’s has ever seen Magnus look like the pictures in his file – younger, neater, handsome – and it does something to Alec that it feels like there’s something’s wrong with his chest, as it clenches and releases, and he struggles for a breath. 

Magnus’ reflection and Alec lock eyes. 

Embarrassed, Alec quickly looks down. He feigns interest in the mess of hair littering the floor as he mutters, "So how did I do?"

Magnus is still touching his hair. "Passable, there’s hope for you yet.”

Alec hesitates, not sure if he should say something. After a few seconds of internal deliberation, he decides on, “It suits you.” 

Magnus doesn’t seem to notice Alec’s pause. “I know it does. But now this." Magnus points to his beard. “I hate this fucking thing.”

And Alec feels his Adam’s apple move in his throat as he takes one more deep breath.

Shaving, in theory, should be easier for Alec as he does it almost every day – but knowing that he needs to do this for _someone else_ , someone who only knows Alec for only a couple of hours in the grand scheme of things, who jumps at every sound, to bare his vulnerable parts to Alec – his face, his jaw, his neck – there’s something strangely intimidating about the act that makes Alec tense. 

They trim the longer parts with the scissors. The rest needs the razor. Alec gets on a knee in front of Magnus, offering the pot of soap to him. "It's cold."

Magnus makes a non-committal noise, takes two handfuls of the stuff, and lathers it on with two giant strokes, one on each cheek, as if he’s branding himself with paint, ready to go to war. When he’s done, his hands drop into his lap and he stared at Alec – watching, waiting for what’s next. 

Alec swallows. “I’m… I’m going to touch you. Is that… is that okay?” Alec’s voice is a ghost. 

Magnus bobs his head – yes. 

Alec cups Magnus' face with his hands, Magnus’ jaw fitting perfectly in between the vee of Alec’s thumb and index finger. The warmth that radiates off Magnus is like a quiet fire, and Alec feels himself unconsciously leaning in. "Is this okay?" Alec asks again, always soft, as the plastic razor hovers steadily only a few centimetres away from Magnus’ face.

Magnus’ eyes are closed as he shudders out a long exhale. They slowly slide open, and Alec is met once again with gold, always so much gold, that always draws Alec’s attention that he can’t look anywhere but. Magnus utters out a single, "yes."

Alec puts the razor to Magnus’ skin and begins. 

He takes the razor and glides it slow, careful – the drag catching the grain of Magnus' beard that makes Alec still his hands, like the tug of waves trying to pull him out to sea – until he strips away the white foam that hides Magnus’ chin to leave smooth tan skin peeking through, patches of sunlight breaking through the clouds. They elapse in this strange silence as Alec does this – it's comfortable but the tension between them is rife, as if any break in the moment will snap whatever tenacious thing that keeps them banded that close distance apart, Alec’s hand on Magnus’ cheek and Magnus’ eyes tracing his mouth. 

And every detail about Magnus is neon in its technicolour, oversaturated in its feeling – that Alec can see gold yellow and magic that fractals in Magnus’ eyes; feel the roughness in Magnus’ skin and how it prickles under his thumb; smell the artificially clean scent of the soap that clings to Magnus like a fog and the musk that lingers underneath – everything that much louder in his ears, like the beat of his heart that reverberates like a drum, soft then loud in crescendo. 

He’s never been this close to Magnus _like this_ before and it’s a moment suspended in time, the air unnaturally still. Alec is– 

Alec doesn't know what he is, what he's feeling, but as the last bits of skin reveal themselves, but all he knows is that they are close, _too close_ even – that their breaths are intermingled, lips inches apart. He knows he's staring at Magnus, but Alec’s eyes, his hands, can't pull away. 

But– but Magnus can. His eyes flicker from Alec’s eyes, then to his mouth, to the razor, and then away. He turns his head, backs away, and runs a hand over his cheek. “Are we done here?” his voice is hoarse and rumbles with something raw, exposed. 

Alec swallows whatever was climbing in his throat, and just nods his head. He can’t get up. 

But– but Magnus can. “Tell them we’re done, Alexander,” and he gets out of his seat and pushes past. 

Alec lifts an arm onto the air, and waves in the direction of the camera. He can hear the door immediately click open. 

Alec gets up. As he approaches the door, Magnus isn’t looking at him. Magnus just stares into the metal of the exit, like a man possessed – a grim line stretched across his face. 

When they finally exit the room, the door shuts behind them with a soft click.

\-- 

When Alec sleeps that fourteenth Thursday, he dreams.

He dreams of light. Sunlight on his face and waves lapping at his feet. 

He dreams in gold and yellow, spinning in glossy pinwheels, and then burgundy and mahogany, that splash and swirl across the page like spilt wine. 

He dreams of a smile, a carefree laugh – a hand warm on his arm. A sweetness on his lips – hopeful, gentle. Bright.

And when he wakes up, the feeling remains; it lays curled in his stomach, radiant and shining, warm and purring – glowing content.

\--

The fifteenth week is a bad one for Alec. 

And the Thursday starts off different, never a good sign – Raphael is there, unexpectedly waiting for him at the gates of the cemetery. In the last couple of days, they had been exchanging succinct fire messages – so that fact that Raphael is here in person raises warning bells in Alec's head. It must be serious, Alec thinks, and approaches Raphael with tension in his arms, and a straightness to his back. 

Once again, the cemetery with Raphael there is an odd sight that Alec can never get used to: Raphael’s stark black silhouette contrasted against the untouched, white snow – a vampire being softly pelleted by snow flurries that catch in his coat and wet his hair. 

“Lightwood,” Raphael says curtly, not waiting for Alec to return the greeting, “That signature. Where did you get it?”

Alec’s confused because he’s pretty sure he’s explained this to Raphael via fire message – but he explains it again, in brief shorthand, about how he uncovered the information. By the end of it, Raphael seems… appreciative, if not grateful, in his usual apathetic sort of way – but Alec can’t exactly be sure.

“This is just a start – but not good enough. My people are looking into it.” Raphael says, and as the snow grows heavier as the silence lapses longer, Alec realizes that this meeting is already done. Raphael is done with the conversation, and he brushes Alec as he walks past. “Don’t fuck this up, Lightwood,” he says. “We’re counting on you.”

But the rest of it is the same in that they make their way to Idris “without incident” – when Alec picks up Magnus from the Silent City, he touches his wrists with slow fingers; when Alec walks with Magnus to the gates of Idris, their shoulders bump as they walk side by side; and as they walk over to the waiting room, he glares at that asshole of a guard who eyes Magnus, stomping on that fucker’s foot “by accident” when he gets a little too close. 

There’s a glimmer of something there, that makes it different – that while it’s all the same, it’s still a little bit different at the same time. 

And everything keeps being the same until they step foot in the waiting room, and the guards shut the door. 

As soon as the door swings in its hinges to meet its frame with that familiar ringing thud, the lock clicks immediately, and then the lights go out. 

“Hey!” Alec immediately bangs on the door, and he can hear an overlay of panicked voices on the other side. “What the hell is going on?”

No response. Just more yelling and footsteps, loud and quick, as if swathes of guards are running through the halls in their heavy boots. An alarm has gone off somewhere.

“HEY!” He tries again, slamming on the door. He turns to look at the camera and notices that it’s off, the light no longer hiccupping its sharp, intrusive red. 

He pulls out his seraph blade for light, and turns to Magnus, accusingly. In the darkness, when Alec turns around, he finds Magnus - Alec stops himself. That can’t be right. There’s no way Magnus is staring at his ass. But Magnus quickly recovers, glances up to meet Alec's gaze, and just gives a shrug. “Don’t look at me, shadowhunter. I didn’t do this. Magic inhibitors remember?”

Alec tries to blow open the door with a couple of runes. It doesn’t work. 

Magnus is chortling – he’s loving this. 

“So, it seems like it’s just you and me, Alexander.” Magnus says, voice plush like velvet. He pats the seat across from him, gesturing for Alec to sit down. 

Alec doesn’t like the grin that’s plastered on Magnus’ face. It’s downright devilish, the scant glow from his blade not helping at all – it’s a look that reminds Alec of when he used to watch the alley cats at the back of the Institute ‘play’ with the mice, before the cats extended their claws and sank their teeth into the mice’s tiny, fragile spines. 

He knows that he needs to play it safe right now. In the midst of chaos, he remembers, comes opportunity. 

Fuck. Alec hates this line. 

“Give me your hands,” he says, as he slides his seraph blade into its holster with one hand, and the other, searching for something else. His manacles clang together when he pulls them out of his belt.

Magnus gasps dramatically when he hears them. “Oh my. I didn’t know you were into this kind of thing.” His voice demures, going playfully soft and coquettish, “I… I don’t know if I’m ready for this yet, Alexander. Will it hurt?” Magnus isn’t moving.

Alec’s glad that the power is out – so he can hide the blush that’s rising to his cheeks. “Stop it.” He hates how Magnus always knows what buttons to push, to elicit the responses he wants out of Alec. 

Alec strides over and grabs his wrists. Magnus doesn’t fight him and just accepts Alec’s hold as the manacles click close. Alec takes the seat next to Magnus, a bit unsure of himself – he never really sits on this side – but he needs to be on this side, right next to Magnus, as he still needs to see to do his job, squinting hard to make out Magnus’ frail outline, and the glow of his golden eyes like two small embers burning bright in the darkness of the room. 

When Magnus speaks again, it’s too close to Alec’s ear. “So, have you come out yet?”

Alec freezes. “What?”

“You don’t need to play dumb with me. You reek of repressed sexuality and familial guilt.” 

Alec turns to Magnus and there’s that look in Magnus’ eyes again, the one where he knows he’s got Alec trapped exactly where he wants him, like a puppet on a string who dances when only told to dance. 

“Well?” Magnus says as he inspects his nails. “It’s really nothing to be ashamed of. You like what you like and that’s that.”

It’s responses like this that anger Alec. It’s not, and never will be, that _easy_. 

“ _Of course_ that’s what you think, Magnus.” Alec lashes out. “Don’t you have like, 17,000 ex-lovers or something, and zero responsibility for any of them?”

Alec can see Magnus’ eyes narrow. Bad choice of words. “And so who are you waiting for then, shadowhunter? Are you saving yourself for some handsome knight in shining armour who’s going to sweep you off your feet?”

Alec flinches, his ears hot. He’s made a mistake thinking he could win this battle, his inexperience easily betraying him. He hates this, that he doesn’t like where this is going – he wants to rewind. “That’s stupid,” he mutters, and looks away. 

“Ah, ah, ah, Alexander. You can’t back out of this one – go on. Please explain.” and Alec can hear the jingling of the manacles on Magnus’ hands, moving. 

“Let’s just forget about this. I abstain.”

“Can I take your denial to mean that you’ve never touched anyone before?” Magnus whispers, and he’s somehow closer – Alec feels Magnus’ warm breath on his ears. 

Even before Alec can react, Magnus has gotten up from his seat, and is straddling one of Alec’s legs. Alec immediately feels the heat of Magnus’ cock – the thin muslin of the prison garb hiding absolutely nothing – pressed against his thigh. “Have you even kissed anyone before?” Magnus asks, demanding. Magnus leans forward, glowing eyes intent on Alec’s mouth. 

“Magnus, I... I can’t– ” He puts a hand on Magnus’ left hip to push him off but Magnus holds firm. 

“Of course you can, darling,” Magnus’ hands are at Alec’s collarbones, too close to his neck. Alec captures them with his free hand. 

“You need to get off– ” Alec says, struggling with – with everything; how this makes him feel, how his body is reacting – and as Alec strives to find the words in mid-sentence, Magnus uses this to his advantage to lean in even further, to close the distance between their lips.

Alec does not do romance, has never done romance, so he’s never dwelt on what his first kiss would be like, would feel like – because he doesn’t care. In retrospect, when Alec imagined his first kiss, he knew with certainty what it was going to be like – it would taste like a lie, an emotionless, symbolic thing to share with a girl that his parents picked out for him – probably from one of the original nephilim lineages – a girl who was both lovely and competent; a girl who he’d never have feelings for, who would be perfect for him in every way except one. 

What he didn’t expect his first kiss to be was this – a culmination of the tension between them in the weeks long gone finally boiling over – it’s not supposed to be hot and frenzied, trapped in a pitch-black waiting room, surrounded by frantic guards and a blaring alarm. And it’s definitely not supposed to be with a suspected murderer, whose lips are currently smashed against his own, tongue pressing insistent and firm at his gates – just waiting for any crack of Alec’s resolve to let him in. 

Definitely not with someone who kisses like a devil, who feels like he wants to extract Alec’s soul through his mouth. 

The ferocity in which Magnus kisses him is devastating, and Alec has to turn on all his defenses to fend off the advance – Magnus himself tastes acidic, coppery, like sucking on a penny, and it lingers on Alec’s lips – it’s absolutely _addicting_ – that Alec wants his to open his mouth to get a proper taste. 

But he absolutely can’t – not like this – so he turns his head away from Magnus, ripping his lips away from temptation, trying to regain some control. 

And all this time, Magnus is grinding into his thigh like a twenty-dollar whore (surprisingly, Alec knows from experience – he’s always hated Jace’s birthday parties for a reason) as he moves with long, languished rolls of his hips – and Alec – Alec can’t seem to let go of his hand that’s moving in tandem with Magnus’ pelvis, that he can feel the bones there move up and down as Magnus’ bony ass moves against him – and all Alec can do is stare in rapture even though he can’t really see anything in the darkness but Magnus’ blurry outline and the two glowing eyes trained on him, because it’s _hot_ , so fucking hot – Alec’s dick immediately grows hard watching. 

Unabashed, unashamed – Magnus probably fucks like a fairy on acid, and Alec can’t help it – an anguished noise releases from his throat. 

Alec can feel his heart jump when Magnus closes in again, this time, tracing the diagonal of his deflect rune with his tongue, following the line up Alec’s jaw until he’s at his ear. He presses his forehead with force into the side of Alec’s head, Alec resisting, pushing back, as Magnus whispers, “Touch me – I need you to touch me, Alexander,” and it takes every ounce of self-control for Alec not to internally combust from the heat of Magnus’ words, and let the breathy moans accompanying that statement sweep him away. 

“We shouldn’t do this, Magnus– ”

“Please, Alec – it’ll make me feel better. It’ll be so good,” Magnus whines, his breath still warm in Alec’s ear. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, and I want this – I want it so bad. I can touch you if you like. Or would you rather fuck my mouth?” He yanks his hands away from Alec’s grasp to paw at the front of Alec’s pants, the bulge evident. 

Magnus’ words are an immediate turn-off, the lines sounding fake and dead to Alec, as if practiced. Alec’s hand immediately chases Magnus’ to capture them again. “This isn’t a joke, Magnus – please–” Alec chokes out. 

Magnus stops moving to look at Alec, eyes intense. “Do you actually want me?”

“By the angel, yes, a thousand times, _yes_ ,” Alec groans. The admission is ripped out of him, but that doesn't change the truth of it - it has been building inside Alec for weeks, the magnetic pull of mystery that slowly, surely, changed into a magnetic pull of desire.

“But you don’t want to do this.”

“Not like this,” Alec whispers. 

Magnus stares at Alec for a moment longer, before he says, “Okay. That’s fine, then.” Magnus stands up (in which Alec has tamp down the tormented noise that gurgles up into his throat – he already misses it – he’s _fucked_ ) and to Alec’s surprise, Magnus shucks of his pants in one movement, waist barely full enough to hold up the seam of his pants anyways. Magnus then returns to his spot, straddling Alec’s thigh – but this time, Alec can see Magnus’ cock – swollen, glistening, pre-come beading at the tip. 

“You can just watch me then,” Magnus says wickedly, and spits on his manacled palms.

“What?”

Alec nearly shoots his load when Magnus takes himself in his own hands, and lets out a keening moan. Alec’s eyes are transfixed on the picture of Magnus in front of him – who’s fisting himself with both his hands, cock slick with his own spit, and riding himself furiously into the rough cotton of Alec’s jeans like his life depends on it. Alec’s arms drop to his side, stunned. His fists clench open and closed several times, nails digging into his palms. He wants to touch, so bad, he’s leaking for it, but he _can’t_.

Magnus catches the flex of Alec’s movement, and releases himself to take one of Alec’s hands into his. “The invitation is still open,” and Magnus brings Alec’s hand to his mouth, and licks a wet stripe down his palm. 

Alec’s tongue is thick as Magnus moves onto his fingers, nibbling at the ends, before taking three of them completely into the wet heat of his mouth, Magnus’ own tongue moving around them, filthily sucking them up to the knuckles in a cruel pantomime. 

Alec falters. “Magnus,” is the only word that comes out.

Magnus removes Alec’s fingers from his mouth, spit coating them that they glisten in the darkness, connecting Magnus to Alec with tenuous, translucent threads. “Yes, my darling? What is it that you want?” Magnus’ lips are shiny, tempting, and wet.

“You – I want you– ”

The gold in Magnus’ eyes seem to go luminescent, and even though Alec can’t see, Alec can feel Magnus’ smirk. 

“Correct answer,” Magnus says as he puts Alec’s wet hand on his cock.

It _is_ the first time that Alec has ever touched someone before – fuck, it’s the first time Alec’s _even had sex_. It feels strange to have someone else’s dick in his hands, the velvety soft skin there familiar yet different from his own – Magnus’ is skinnier, longer – but never in his life has touching his own cock felt as good like it does right now, even though he hasn’t even laid a single finger on himself – touching Magnus, seeing Magnus, breathing him in, it all building into an intensity that’s at a level that’s so impossible to describe that Alec can’t even think, that he doesn’t know if the world is spinning right way round or standing right way up. 

As their hands slide together over Magnus’ cock, Magnus’ guiding Alec’s with this rough, demanding sloppiness that Alec feels bruises are forming in his skin, moving with Alec’s so he can set the speed exactly how he wants it – up and down, faster, his hands scream – Magnus is quietly blathering into his ear in this heated way that Alec can only be construed as _true_ , “The first time I saw your hands, Alexander – I wanted you to do this to me, yes… fuck yes… _fuck yes_ ,” and then he comes, spilling into both of their hands – a white hot mess. 

Alec feels his own orgasm unexpectedly rip out of him as he watches Magnus’ back arch in release, as his eyes trace the curved line of his spine, and as Magnus’ hips slowly piston to a halt. 

The room is quiet yet not quiet at the same time, the only sound echoing loudly in Alec’s ears is the deep inhalations of their erratic breaths. After a moment, Magnus suddenly leans into Alec. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Alec catches him, Magnus’ head resting heavily, perfectly, on one of his shoulders. It feels like it belongs there.

He then feels Magnus still reaching for the waist of his jeans. 

“You don’t need to, Magnus. _Stop_ – I already– ” He lets go, which results in Magnus tumbling to the ground. He grabs at one of Magnus’ wrists to help him up, Alec’s grip is remarkably steady despite the sticky mixture of spit and come that coated his digits only moments before. 

When he looks down however, there’s a folded-up piece of paper embossed with the DuMort logo in Magnus’ hands. 

At the weight of Alec’s glance, Magnus slowly looks up at him from the ground. Even though his pants are at his ankles, his ass is bare on the dirty floor, and spunk coats his palms, there is no hint of shame in Magnus’ eyes, just a golden fire burning there – driven, unrelenting, and determined. 

Alec drops Magnus’ wrist, burnt. “Pull up your fucking pants,” Alec says, as Magnus quickly tucks the paper into an invisible seam of his shirt. 

It feels like a slap in the face. It feels like a stake wedged in his heart. Something is breaking in Alec and what he feels is – he doesn’t know what he feels except that its both burning him and numbing him all at once, a caustic mixture of fire and ice. And whatever it is that consumes him, that’s left an open wound in his chest – it has no name, has no face because it feels like _everything_ at the same time – disbelief, disappointment, and an inexplicable sense of betrayal – all at the same time but yet its none of them at all.

Alec’s not angry – he’s just – he's just– 

“Thank you,” Magnus hoarsely whispers, and he returns to his seat.

Five minutes later, the lights flicker back on, and the red dot of the camera is back, winking to them in greeting. When the guards finally arrive to tell that today’s leniency hearing is cancelled due to “power surges in the grid”, and they need to get them out of there to investigate the source, they find Magnus and Alec as they left them: fully dressed and sitting on their respective side of the seats, legs not even an inch over the threshold, each party staring anywhere but each other. 

Magnus gets up first. He doesn’t look back as he approaches the guards. 

Alec follows; but when he stands up, he sees something fall to the floor from his back pocket. He stoops to pick it up – and frowns. 

It’s a flower – somehow still alive in the midst of winter – and as he traces its delicate edges and curves, he realizes that he’s seen this same purple flower with the rounded petals before. Alec remembers it vividly from weeks ago. 

And then it all clicks into place – why Raphael was there today, why Magnus was staring, what Magnus was doing, why the power cut out. It’s so obvious that he feels like a fool for not noticing it before.

Alec crushes the bloom in his hand. 

Alec's not angry. He’s not. He understands what he looks like to Magnus and Raphael – an outsider who will never understand– but he can’t help feeling this feeling that eats at him, that’s currently laughing at him, that’s disguised as anger but really isn’t it – knowing that anger has never left him feeling this hollow and gutted, nor has it ever felt like someone’s carved out his insides and twisted deep.

He knows what anger feels like, and it doesn’t feel like this.


	4. Part 1 - Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Apologies for the tremendous delay. I admit it has been a long time, an even longer time than I predicted, just given a series of life events (mostly good!) that have come at me in rapid succession. I do come bearing the finale of Part 1 as a peace offering - a 15K-word piece offering (which, mind you, is mind-boggling by my standards!). 
> 
> However, as a helpful hint, I do recommend reading the previous chapters again – this chapter is hugely contingent on several details of what’s happened in the past, and I would love all of you to experience the “ah-ha” moment when it all ties back. 
> 
> As always, I give thanks to the illustrious [bumblebeesknees](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebeesknees/pseuds/bumblebeesknees) for so many things, least of which is the beta. This probably wouldn’t exist and be half as coherent without her <3

Doubt comes knocking back on Alec’s door that Thursday night, slightly sheepish and imploring, like an old, remorseful friend. 

It’s like he never left really, hiding amongst the fraying edges of Alec’s mind and waiting for when Alec was at his weakest, making it that much easier to let him in.

And the waiting paid off: doubt has found the perfect time to show up since Alec is at his proverbial weakest right now, scraped raw, each step he takes like pressure applied on a bruise. What Magnus did, Alec understands – he _does_ – but he doesn’t want to think about it. Because he doesn’t want to feel something about it, doesn’t want to react. And because of this, Alec struggles to piece together his thoughts even in the quiet of the Silent City and the marble cemetery as he heads home. 

The silence has the opposite effect on him, amplifying his thoughts into something bigger and louder that is even more of a challenge for him to ignore. 

Alec decides to take an obscure, infrequent route home. No one should bear witness to this, see the acting Head of the New York Institute being an absolute mess. He activates his speed rune to get to the Institute that much quicker, and when he gets there, he darts into the right hallway to avoid central command (still buzzing with activity even though it’s nearly midnight). His steps quicken as shadowhunters pass him in the halls, he keeps his head down; he focuses on keeping his expression schooled with indifference, to tamp down on those other feelings desperately pushing at his features that nearly succeed in escape. 

He hurts. 

Those feelings don’t dull by the time he reaches his room, doesn’t lessen as he climbs into bed and struggles to fall asleep. But it takes too long, and Alec is desperate not to be alone with his thoughts tonight, this never-ending loop of chattering thought that won’t quiet that always snaps his mind awake in the final seconds. 

Quietly, he reaches over for his stele – and sears a new sleeping rune into his shoulder.

While the rune puts him to sleep, it doesn’t prevent dreams. Doubt also comes to him wearing a mask at night, a familiar one, recognizable even under the cover of dream fog and the darkness. It makes it that much easier to let him in. 

_“The invitation is still open,”_ he says, his eyes gleaming gold. 

_“Yes, my darling? What is it that you want?”_ his lips move, lush, shining, and devil red. 

Doubt in that façade makes it that much harder to sleep. And when he wakes, Alec finds out that his body remembers just as vividly as well. Lips on lips, the touch of skin; it cumulative into this sensation that overwhelms him in his lucid sleep that he has to spend more than a few minutes to recover. He doesn’t touch, just wills his body to obey – because it feels dirty and sick and wrong all the same. 

The next day, Alec finds out that work is not that much better either. Alec’s attempts to use his job as an avoidance mechanism are purely in vain – and he still finds himself often pausing in the middle of archiving to scroll over to the Clave’s archives, running through databases of signatures in a futile attempt to find a match from his search the prior week. 

He catches himself one time as he does this. _What are you doing? Helping someone who doesn’t want help, who doesn’t trust you – who treats you like a pawn?_ The thought makes him pause as the ache starts to swell and press heavy into his chest.

Alec feels exposed. Vulnerable. Like he’s revealed an unthinkable weakness. Was he a fool to think it was something? Whether it be a friendship or the beginning of something more? That the talks that they’ve had over fifteen weeks had made them Magnus and Alexander to each other, not just prisoner and guard? It had felt real to Alec, whatever this was, quelling some of the loneliness for him – and Alec knows, _knows_ with every bone in his body, that it did this for Magnus too. 

At least he thought it did. When he thinks about it longer, he realizes that it could have just as easily been something else entirely. That it was all fake and that Magnus was just playing him, vying for information, somehow thinking that Alec was the key to unlock him from his imprisonment – and nothing more. 

A tool, a body; ultimately disposable. That sad and small feeling returns, and it curls deep within him at the thought. A deep grimace stains his mouth. 

_“Correct answer,”_ doubt replies with a smirk.

He immediately banishes the thought away.

Alec wishes he could talk to _someone_ about this. Anyone. But he can’t tell Izzy or Jace about this because they will immediately see it written all over his face – he’s attached. A little too attached to the warlock trapped away in the recesses of the Silent City, who presses at his buttons, who can recite the Art of War from memory, and who can’t help but laugh maniacally at terrible puns. Who always pushes back and never relents, who can never roll over and die. 

Two forces at war within himself, yet the answer is clear, so much so that Alec understands what position Magnus is in and can’t put his actions past him. In that Alec is still willing to find a way to give Magnus a second chance at freedom, let the need to do right triumph over his feelings – even though he’s coming to terms that Magnus may have torn something out of him, leaving only sharp jagged edges in its place.

_When this all goes belly up, remember that this is your doing, your own fault, you understand?_

Alec grits his teeth. He can’t do this today. He turns off his terminal and spends the rest of his Friday evening tiring himself out – by beating a punching bag into a pulp, and peppering arrows into targets. He’ll think about it more on the weekend. 

But then a band of rogue warlocks decide to reign terror over New York and the remaining week is utter chaos at the Institute, Alec doesn’t have any time to spare to think about it, except when he lies awake at night. 3am in the morning is exactly the time he doesn’t want to think about it – he desperately pushes these thoughts away so he can actually get some rest, so he can abate the exhaustion that he feels, both mentally and physically. He draws over his sleeping rune one more time.

All of this cumulates into this tiring phenomenon in which the week doesn’t actually feel like a week. The days drag on long but the aggregation of them feel somehow that much shorter; time moving constant and slow, paced steady like ticks of a heartbeat, but moving too fast all the same. In which the next thing Alec knows, the weekend has gone, Monday through Wednesday passes – and then its Thursday all over again. 

\--

On the next Thursday, Alec dutifully escorts Magnus through the winding corridors of the Silent City, and then through the pristine halls of the penitentiary centre in the heart of Idris. It’s a familiar walk to him, but it’s lost something now – something warm, something nurtured – lost in the span in the week that has past. No words are spoken, and there is a careful distance between them as Alec brings Magnus to that white room with the brown chairs.

They take their places, Alec sitting in the row on the right, and Magnus on the left. 

Alec looks at Magnus, searching. 

Magnus looks away.

They don’t talk. 

Fifteen minutes later, a guard in waiting comes to collect Magnus. 

Alec’s eyes follow Magnus as he gets up and walks towards the door, but Magnus never feels it - or doesn’t acknowledge it, choosing to ignore rather than confront. Whether its ignorance or choice, it still feels cold – and it hurts all the same. 

As the door creaks to a close, Alec shuts his eyes tightly and lets out a long sigh.

\--

The time in which Magnus’ session ends this Thursday is peculiarly short. Alec’s surprised to hear the guard and Magnus return so soon; he jumps in his seat, caught unaware. 

It’s not like Alec wants to stay here longer than he has to – there’s only so much tension and awkwardness that he can withstand, especially when he knows that his company isn’t wanted. But this time around, Alec wanted to have this time alone, this precious half-hour, to finally puzzle through his confusion that lays ruin to the routine and structure that has driven his life like clockwork, to do what he does best – to strategize and devise a plan to make things right again. 

“We’ll let you out shortly, Lightwood,” the guard says. He’s a stocky shadowhunter – decorated with several fortitude and calm anger runes. “The Inquisitor needs you to pass some paperwork to your Institute, but…” his voice suddenly drops several decibels, “she’s in one of her _moods_ today.” 

Understandable – Alec gives the guard a sympathetic look. “Sure, just give a knock,” he says. His words come out too quick, slightly raspy from non-use. He realizes it’s the first thing he’s said all evening. 

Magnus walks past them as he and the guard talk. He plunks himself in the seat furthest away from Alec as the guard leaves. He still refuses to meet Alec’s eyes. 

It’s ultimately Magnus’ dismissal that disheartens him, that makes Alec unsure about what to do next. It wasn’t like he actually thought that Magnus wanted to – well, it doesn’t matter. This is just one more nail in the coffin, one more sign that Magnus doesn’t want to fix this. That maybe Alec doesn’t need to do anything about it. 

But that isn’t him – never one for inaction when his gut screams to him no, you can’t leave things like how they are. Especially not when every one of his senses is telling him that Magnus doesn’t look the same; that Magnus has never looked as low as this with his eyes distant, defeated, and vacant. That he has to do something because Magnus doesn’t look _alright_. 

He draws a deep breath. He has to do this. 

“Hey… are you okay?” Alec tries. He keeps his voice low, careful as if the blinking camera in the corner could pick up any hint of emotion. 

He slides over in his seat to put a hand to Magnus’ knee, trying to grab his attention, to pull Magnus’ out of his stupor. 

Magnus immediately flinches. His hand comes flying to enclose Alec’s, a warm palm resting heavy over the back of Alec’s hand. However, when Magnus finally turns to Alec, the look that he gives feels completely different somehow. 

It holds an emotion that Alec hasn’t felt since they had first met. 

Everything changes with that look. Magnus’ hand is no longer warm, their fingers entangled suddenly a cage. 

“Did they do anything to you?” Alec whispers. He scans Magnus up and down for any new injuries; cuts or bruises, any sign of blood. 

That he’s starting to question the integrity of his job – it’s a powerful thing, whatever this emotion is that he holds for Magnus. How could it be that meeting someone over the course of fifteen weeks, in the cumulative span of less than 24 hours, could turn everything that Alec knows upside down – slowly tearing at those careful divides he’s built around his responsibility to the Clave and human compassion – when truly, when had that become two separate things? That he has to choose between them – choose between how good he has to be and how much of the rules that he has to follow – is a losing battle either way. He knows that it will lead to disappointment and unfulfilled expectations, whether it be the Clave, his family, or his own. 

But… he knows he’s pointlessly at war with himself when he’s already decided. His body, mind, and spirit has decided for him, pulling him a specific direction that he can’t fight. It’s why Ragnor’s death strikes him so odd, inconsistent with the way Magnus speaks about him, it’s why finding this signature weighs so heavily in his mind – it’s why there is so much _doubt_. 

He wants to help. That much he knows. 

“I can protect you, if you need me to,” Alec continues. “You just need to talk to me-” 

“What exactly do you think this is?” Magnus suddenly interrupts. His tone is sharp, and he’s finally _looking_ at Alec, searching and hard. 

Magnus’ reaction startles him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, _this_ ,” Magnus says, as he gestures between the distance that separates them, “ _us_.”

Alec knows that he’s not going to answer Magnus’ question – partially because he doesn’t have one. Alec still hasn’t come to terms as to what this is, and while he can’t exactly define it or put it into words, deigning Magnus an answer feels like the ultimate confession – one he isn’t safe making.

Alec can no longer hold Magnus’ gaze. He looks down at their hands, still intermingled, but remains silent.

Magnus doesn’t see like he particularly cares for Alec’s non-response. He unlaces himself from Alec’s hand, and roughly pushes it off his knee. 

“Let me ask you another question then,” he says. “Was that your first time?”

Alec can’t answer that question either – and he doesn’t have to. Magnus already knows the answer to that.

“I bet it was, wasn’t it Lightwood? Your only sexual experience – a quick handie from a murderer.” Magnus’ tone shifts as he continues, touched with something harsher, meant to wound. “Don’t you want to know about my first time, Lightwood? You always seem so interested in my experiences, my firsts.” 

It's instantaneous, the realization that something is wrong with Magnus. He’s a different Magnus to the one Alec has gotten used to. A version of Magnus that Alec doesn’t know or rarely had been exposed to, with exception of the first couple of weeks into the mission. A Magnus with scorn in his eyes, and malice and oil coating his words. 

But this Magnus doesn’t give Alec any time to process his actions or words when he moves into the seat next to him leans too close into Alec’s space. Alec suppresses the shudder that runs through him – as if his body remembers – when Magnus leans in to whisper in his ear, “it was with a dark-haired man, with the clearest hazel eyes …”

Alec shuts his eyes and braces himself. He knows what’s coming and he – he can’t fucking move. He wants to, he wants to put an ocean between him and what’s coming next but – he can’t. All of him is frozen is place.

“During 1611, in Basque, Spain. Towards the end of the witch trials when we were captured by the Conquistadors during the Spanish Inquisition – most likely on the basis of sodomy as opposed to witchcraft, believe it or not. I met Martzel, a sailor.” Magnus says. “And he was such a _passionate lover_ , Lightwood, you really have no idea.”

Magnus’ words still feel like a punch to the gut. _He knows._

If Magnus sees any of Alec’s pain, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just proceeds, as if this were any other story, as if it wasn’t a weapon specially designed to dig deep wounds into Alec. “We met at the inn, the one closest to the port. A gentleman – rare for sailors during that time. Martzel loved art and theatre. He told me that when he first laid eyes on me, he thought I was an angel, crafted by God himself.” Magnus chuckles sardonically, but there’s a whisper of something wistful and sad to it as well. “Can you believe he said that? He said he would follow me to the ends of the earth.” 

“One night, right before he was going to leave for one of his trips, we got so rip-roaringly drunk. We were a mess – so young, loud, and obnoxious – a disturbance to the other patrons. The bar maiden complained and told us to get out. But Martzel had a room there – told me he had a bottle of the good stuff stashed in his room that would make the eyes roll into the back of my head. And who was I to turn down free alcohol? And so I went.”

Magnus’ voice suddenly drops very low, husky as if he’s actually had something to drink. “But as soon as we reached his room, we were on each other. He backed me into the door and kissed me so hard, I was sure the wood would leave splinters in my skin, through my clothes. I remember wanting to touch him. So we stumbled towards the bed, stripping ourselves of jackets, our shirts, tugging at each other’s belts.” 

At this, Alec feels his cheeks heat up as he does everything in his power to school his expression into something stoic, when all he wants to do is clamp hands over his ears to shut out Magnus’ words. 

“He spread me with his fingers, first. Then he tasted me. His touch felt like fire against my skin, his tongue teasing, hot yet not quite enough, that I was begging, pleading for him to take me.” Magnus lets out a sigh. “He was such a gentleman, Alexander – wouldn’t act until I told him yes. But when I begged, something primal took over, I felt the earth move when he slammed into me. I could feel _everything_. And then when I rode him, it was hard and fast – I was bouncing on his cock, biting into his shoulder so no one could hear me moan out his name– “ 

Alec can’t take it anymore. 

“You need to shut the fuck up, Magnus,” he spits out, his anger finally taken ahold. Alec hates the look that Magnus is giving him. It’s telling – the fact that Alec’s emotions are painted clearly over his face. That Magnus knows he’s gotten the upper hand. 

Magnus knows exactly what he’s doing – and it’s _cruel_. 

“Don’t look so hurt,” Magnus croons. He’s mocking him, treating Alec like a child who doesn’t know any better. “I’m sure I’ll remember our time together at some point, when I’m utterly bored and have nothing better to think about.” 

When Alec twitches, Magnus’ eyes shift to follow the movement. “And what exactly are you planning to do with that blade, shadowhunter?” Magnus asks, eyebrows raised. 

Alec realizes his hand is firmly gripped on the hilt of his blade. 

_No_. Surprised, Alec recoils and slackens his hold.

Magnus takes advantage of the situation in Alec’s reticence – and before Alec can blink, Magnus is on him, fingers around Alec’s neck, choking him out. “Tsk, tsk – losing your touch I see. It can’t be that you trust a demon now, could you? What would the Clave think?”

“Why are you doing this?” Alec says in a furious whisper, pushing against the weight against his throat. 

“What did you think we were? Friends? Lovers? Because you touched my dick?” Magnus asks, as his eyes flash – his pupils expand and contract suddenly, as if his magic struggling to get out, only to be held back and restrained. “Let’s get this straight, Lightwood. I used you. I don’t trust you. You are predictable and _easy_ – you’ve played your role of the confused white knight perfectly.” 

“Don’t make me regret helping you, Magnus,” Alec warns, clarifying his intent with one heavy shove. While Magnus appears a lot stronger given his circumstances, Alec is physically stronger – and the force of his push makes Magnus stumble back. 

Yet it’s not enough to intimidate – Magnus just laughs at Alec’s empty threat. 

“Please, elaborate. What have you helped me with? Jerking me off? Quelling my boredom? Saving me from pathetic guards who get off on beating up helpless warlocks? There is absolutely _nothing_ I need to apologize for, especially to you. I did exactly what I needed to do.” 

The expression that Magnus wears is dangerous and reignites a belief in Alec that had slowly started to dissipate several weeks ago – that Magnus is a criminal and wants him to hurt.

 _Danger._ Alec’s survival instincts suddenly kick in – and with several quick motions, Alec reverses their positions. Alec forcefully pushes Magnus into his seat behind him, a forearm pressed hard into Magnus’ chest and his blade millimeters away from Magnus’ throat. “You’re the one who’s harming yourself – you put yourself in this position because you’re incapable of asking for help,” Alec retaliates back, seething. “Unable to trust. Pushing everyone away to protect yourself. I could’ve told the Clave about the letter, but I never did– ” He punctuates his words with another shove of his arm, preventing escape. 

Alec sees the tip of his blade graze Magnus’ Adam’s apple when Magnus swallows. He meets Alec’s gaze defiantly, and his eyes shine with something Alec hasn’t seen in a while, especially towards him.

_Hate._

“You’re a spineless man, Alexander Lightwood. I hope you know that,” Magnus hisses, his tone harsh, as if there were friction between the letters in his name. “A pariah of experience – a pathetic excuse for human being. Someone who can’t make up his mind, who will always need a master to give him direction. Who thinks that dying will solve the world’s problems. Who will never have the courage to admit hard truths about himself. To accept yourself. Worthless and a coward – let’s not add liar to that list.” 

Before Alec can process the meaning of Magnus is saying, Magnus spits in his face. “You mean nothing to me, shadowhunter. You could take a knife to the heart for me and it still won't settle anything between us.”

To remind yourself about own your insecurities is one thing – but to hear it put into words, affirmed, and the thrown into your face – it stings. Stings like fire, like the glowing red of a branding iron, leaving what feels like a red mark right over his chest. 

He’s angry at Magnus – fuck, he’s so, angry at _himself_. 

_“I want you,”_ he had said to Magnus last Thursday in the darkness. And in that moment, Magnus knew. Knew his weakness and how to hurt him. Knew that in the haze, in the heat, and in all of the frenetic chaos that swallowed and surrounded them, that he had found a bead of truth there, in what way was the easiest to manipulate Alec. That this was the better method of making Alec lose control, the one thing that Alec held onto this entire time, to bypass everything that Alec’s mind vehemently denied, to hook directly into his heart – through touch, though skin, through a kiss. 

The realization is enough to make Alec’s anger to splinter and arcs out of his control. The next thing he knows, his hands are on Magnus, and he’s throwing Magnus out of his seat – over the backrest and into the wall behind him. Magnus’ head hits the wall with a loud sickening thud. 

“You aren’t human, Magnus Bane,” he grits out. “And it’s not even because of your demon blood. Everything that’s happened, it’s because of you and your choices. You’ve decided your own fate – and you deserve everything that you’ve brought on yourself.” 

At Alec’s words, an ominous tension falls between them, and the air goes still. 

The quiet makes Alec glance over – and when Alec takes in the whole picture, sees what he’s done, Alec regrets _everything_. 

He sees a prisoner, in his tattered white muslin, hunched over, clutching at his arm. His head bashed against the wall, a smear of dark blood a significant contrast against the white surface. Magnus wounded and weakened. 

But most of all, Alec is shaken by the emotion written across Magnus’ expression – hurt. Not from Alec’s actions – but from his words. Why would Magnus care about Alec’s _words_ – 

“Once a shadowhunter, always a shadowhunter,” Magnus whispers.

Alec steps back. He needs to get out of here. He stumbles backwards towards the exit, then yells as he starts pounding on the door, “Guard. Guard! I need a guard.”

Magnus calls out to him one last time, through the noise he makes, the metallic banging on the door. “Here’s another question for you, Lightwood. Which would you rather be remembered for? For concussing your prisoner, or for wanting to fuck him in the ass?” 

Alec just keeps banging his fist against the door.

The guard comes thirty seconds later – but it’s still thirty seconds too long for Alec. “Watch this asshole for the rest of the evening – he was getting out of control. I need to go. Emergency at the Institute,” he says – and then he’s out of the room in a flash.

Magnus hears his lie and cackles from somewhere behind him. “Running away from a question, Alexander? You don’t even need to abstain – I think we already both know the answer to that.” 

The anger Alec feels isn’t enough to stop the flush of shame that rises to his cheeks. _You’re such an idiot, Lightwood,_ Alec thinks. _Such a fucking idiot._

\--

Alec is terrifying the following week. 

Alec’s always known that he’s had a reputation for being a hardass at the Institute – that he’s that Lightwood sibling with ice in his veins and uncompromising in his actions – the one with zero chill. But this week, ice turns to stone, and he barely even notices as he snaps at the littlest things. Like when of the head of security chases him around the Institute in a futile attempt to get him to approve the wards refresh, or when he catches Raj raving about the latest mundane Marvel movie. 

Not to mention the several messages he receives from Raphael Santiago that somehow slipped into his pocket during missions. He decides not to open them, opting to watch his fireplace burn them into dancing embers and ash.

 _For god’s sake_ , he’s angry, not deaf – he doesn’t need the constant reminds of his fuck-ups, that he’s _worthless and a coward_ – how he’s the “worst” Lightwood, and to have it all confirmed when he hears whispers from the other shadowhunters who walk in wide circles around him, and warn each other to steer clear of Alec Lightwood today because he’s in a mood. 

His annoyance only intensifies when he’s assigned to a mission with Jace to go raid a local apartment in search of a book. 

“It’s called _Simple Recipes for Housewives_ ,” Jace says matter-of-factly as they reach the apartment complex. The building is classic Gotham in its construction with its sharp, stoic lines and walls of deep-red brick, that looms tall over Brooklyn Heights. Small silver letters spell out _Nightingale Towers_ on a plaque near the landing. 

“They’re sending us to fetch a cookbook.” Alec says, deadpan. It’s like they want him to explode from an aneurysm. 

“I think it’s a magical cookbook,” Jace corrects. “A direct request from the Inquisitor, apparently. We need to retrieve it before it falls into the wrong hands.” He starts randomly dialing several numbers on the apartment buzzer system, hoping to strike it lucky that someone will let them in.

Jace is unsuccessful for the first couple of minutes – until an unsuspecting mundane holds the door open a little too long and they slip past him – and it's just too easy when they catch the elevator doors. 

“Jace, you could’ve done this yourself,” Alec snaps. 

“Yeah, but it's more fun this way,” Jace says mischievously – and it takes two seconds for Alec to realize that he may not actually be officially designated to be on this mission after all. 

Jace immediately sobers up when he realizes Alec isn't smiling back. “What's with you this week? You look like you’ve had it bad.”

This isn’t the conversation that Alec wants to be having right now, trapped in a metal box suspended several feet in the air – and neither does Jace apparently, as he stares intently at the elevator doors as if he were searching for hidden messages in the brushed steel. The elevator counts the floors steadily as they ride it up – _four, five, six_ , and it only makes the silence between them sound louder, stretched out, pushing Alec to answer. “... Just a lot of work lately,” he says lamely. “Y’know… Stress.” 

It’s not completely false; two thirds a lie, and a third truth. 

_Seven, eight, nine_ – Jace is nodding but he doesn’t look completely appeased as he fiddles with a large ruby necklace that he's placed a tracking spell on. “Anything else?” His eyes dart briefly to Alec only for a second – Alec barely catches the movement. 

A simple ask but an enormous temptation. There’s a part of Alec that screams to him, _“Tell him, tell Jace. He already knows!”_ It’s so tantalizingly simple…yet something throbs painfully in Alec that refuses to let him speak. 

Instead, Jace fills in that silence for him. “I know I haven’t been around that much lately, with Clary and everything. But I can tell – that something happened.” Jace’s hand flies over to his parabatai rune. “I can tell that you’re… you’re angry. Really angry. Disappointed. Hurt. And it’s not about this book. I feel it and _I know_.” 

“I can’t – I can’t right now. You have to understand– ” Alec starts, as the elevator continues to ascend – _thirteen, fourteen, fifteen_.

“You don’t have to tell me what it is. Or who it is,” Jace interrupts. “But I need you to be okay. I trust your judgement to let me know when you need me, or when you feel like you can’t get back up. Because I’m always right here.” He puts a firm hand on Alec’s shoulder, and his grip is like a pillar that anchors Alec to this earth.

 _Seventeen._ The elevator dings softly.

Jace’s loyalty, his devotion – means more to Alec than he lets on. All he can do is squeeze Jace’s arm and hope that Jace understands what it means. _Thank you_. 

“We should go do something together afterwards – y’know, like get a drink or something,” and Jace just laughs when Alec makes a face. He gives Alec several reassuring claps on the shoulder as the elevator doors slide open. “Fine, you pick a place then.”

“We can decide after we finish this,” Alec says – but he’s smiling now. 

The tracking spell makes it easy. It leads them to a loft that’s obviously locked – but it only takes a couple of tries with the ruby necklace and the wards to finally let them in. 

Once again, it feels way too easy – when Jace and Alec peer inside with their seraph blades raised, only to find the place completely deserted. Cobwebs threaded through the chandeliers, French doors swung open, and thick dust that coat the baroque carpets; the stillness of the inside – its unnerving to the both of them. 

How it feels like someone left and never came back. 

“Let’s just find this dumb book and get out of here,” Jace mutters as he signals for Alec to sweep right while he circles left. “Clary made me watch _the Haunting_ and I am getting some serious vibes from this place.”

It takes them close to twenty minutes to find the book nestled innocently on a bookshelf next to a writing desk littered with several handwritten invoices, I.O.Us, and reminders, scripted in a curling font – yet it takes Alec an additional five minutes to finish his own investigation, to fully take in the eclectic décor as well as the view of the city from the balcony. The apartment is an assault on the senses, pulsing with something alive that makes it feel as it if it has life on its own – the thrum of its warmth only dulled by the thick dust that carpets the space. 

_Strange yet not quite too much_ , Alec thinks as he refrains from touching anything. The temptation is hard to avoid, just given the sheer number of baubles, books, photos, and French renaissance paintings that line the walls and bookshelves, a clash of colour and pattern amongst the modern furniture, made of wood and glass. Strange yet somehow it works – and as Alec eyes a cabinet full of …questionable ingredients, and he thinks to himself that he’d like to know more about the person who lives here – clearly well-travelled and well-learnt – should he decides to come back. 

Besides the small scuffle that Alec and Jace have when Jace tries to steal a bottle of alcohol from the bar (“this whiskey costs a fortune!”) – it really is the easiest mission that Alec has been on, and they return to the Institute unscathed, book in hand. 

\--

Jace and Alec come back from the mission Tuesday evening – and then they take the rest of the night off to play pool at the Hunter’s Moon. 

Alec beats Jace seven games to five, but the last couple of games barely constitute as competition as Jace sloshes one drink down, then two more – and Alec knows it’s time to pack it up when Jace can barely keep his eyes open, head about to conk on table itself when he leans a little too close to make his shot. Regardless, the night is wonderfully uneventful as nights go. 

“This was fun, Alec. Let’s do this again sometime,” Jace says drowsily, words muffled against Alec’s shoulder.

Alec maneuverers Jace home with a guiding hand, keeping an eye out for any telltale signs that Jace is about to upchuck the contents of his stomach all over his shirt. “Yeah… But maybe not a Tuesday night next time, alright?”

Alec feels oddly loose and light-headed as he and Jace stumble home – the cool night air feels fresh and cool against his skin. Laughter and good company is a surprisingly potent combination that’s left him in a pleasant mood, and he feels slightly buzzed off of it, a natural high, despite not having anything to drink. Decent conversation is a welcome change from all the Institute vernacular and barked out orders he’s been engaged in all week, the last one he’s had being around two weeks ago when he was at Idris with– 

No. _No._ Just thinking about it feels like a boulder hurtling toward Alec, oppressive and foreboding. It drags the lightness out of him. 

He immediately shuts the thought out as he does with the door, after depositing Jace into his room. 

When he reaches his own room, his bed, its luckily closer to morning than it is midnight – and his body knows it. The lightness is gone now, completely snuffed out by exhaustion; his brain too tired to think, a lethargic heaviness sets in his bones despite it only being Tuesday. However, Alec is only grateful for this – and as soon as Alec closes his eyes, he’s out like a light. 

The sleep he has is quiet and undisturbed. _No dreams this time_ , is the first thing that he thinks of when he wakes the next morning, to the light that filters through the windows and his forgotten curtains. It’s a relief. Improvement, healing; a sign of recovery – and his chest swells and swells with that lightness again. Despite the lack of sleep, he feels oddly refreshed – and the day is one of those days in which it just passes – it’s neither memorably great nor terrible – but it’s exactly what Alec needs right now. A simple day full of routine things – and it continues to be like that until the evening until he answers the sharp knock on his door. 

It’s Raj. This is also okay – until he opens his mouth. 

“The Inquisitor requests an audience with you,” he says. “She’s waiting in the Head’s office.”

Alec’s blood runs cold. 

The Inquisitor in New York? The visit is unexpected – the lack of notice is almost foreboding, and that his parents don’t know, even stranger. That she’s coming to the New York Institute in-person, unscheduled and unannounced, specifically looking for him – it fills him with a sense of dread. 

_What did he do wrong?_ He traces his actions for the past week – and when he rewinds to Thursday, it all comes flooding back. By the angel – what _hasn’t_ he done wrong?

For all his efforts in avoidance and his claims of self-preservation, it’s pathetic that he falls apart at the mention of the Inquisitor. When he thinks of the Inquisitor, his thoughts jump to fault, to guilt. And instantaneously, it’s like he’s back there, in that white room with the white walls and the ugly brown chairs, staring at Magnus pinned to the wall with the hurt written across his face. 

Words crawl into his ears – _worthless and coward, once a shadowhunter, always a shadowhunter_ – and this time, they stay there, running in continuous loops and laps in his head as he makes his way from the barracks and across the Institute. He’s not even concerned about what he’s in trouble for anymore – instead, he’s hoping that the anxiety he feels for the Inquisitor herself is enough to stamp out the aching feeling that plagues him, ruled him since last Thursday.

“Mr. Lightwood,” she greets him when he enters. The familiar scent of the wood from the desk and the smoke of the fireplace invites him in – contrasted by the unwelcoming look in Imogen’s grey eyes that cut like steel as she watches him from the office chair, his father’s seat. 

“Inquisitor.” 

He stands until she tells him not to. “Please,” she gestures to the chair, “I don’t bite.” The side of her mouth quirks into what should be a smile, but it feels like something else entirely. 

Before he sits, he sees _Simple Recipes for Housewives_ sitting on the desk, and she has a hand clutched tightly on the cover. 

He can’t help it – he’s curious. “That’s not exactly a mundane cookbook, is it Inquisitor?” 

She looks at him surprised, as if she’s startled by his question, by his boldness. She follows his eyes to the cover of the book, her pale fingers tracing the corners of the hardcover spine, before responding – her tone either humoured or condescending – it’s slightly hard to tell. “Mundane cooking? Definitely not. This is more than just a few simple recipes.” 

She hesitates for a moment – but her wariness is short-lived. Her resolve is even quicker, and in the time it takes her to think about her choices, she’s already made it, already meeting Alec’s gaze – _a challenge_ – as she flips the cover open. 

Heavenly light emits from within, and Alec can see that several pages have been cut out to make room for another tome – a book within a book. In which the cookbook itself looks frayed with well-use, the book within is pristine; the cover still dove-white and its edges untarnished, the intricate gold inlay twisted into strange symbols Alec doesn’t recognize, still shiny as if it were brand new. 

The book is left splayed open for only about two seconds – Imogen immediately shuts it right after. “We’re in talks of transporting it to a more secure location.” 

“What is it exactly?”

Whatever easiness existed between them seeps quickly like sand in a thin. hourglass, and she’s looking at him with that cool, hard look again. “That’s not for you to know. We’re not here to discuss this-“ and she slides the book out of his sight, towards her and into her lap. “We’re here to talk about you, Alexander. And your future with the Clave.”

Silence. Her words hang awkwardly in the air, her attempts in evasion anything but effective. But Alec can tell by the sharp corners of her mouth and the skin stretched at her eyes that asking her about it will get him nowhere closer, but instead push him further back. Instead, he files the information away for later – and waits for her to continue. 

“I’ve heard about what you had to do last Thursday, given the circumstances,” she starts. 

At the mention of Thursday, it’s as if Alec is suddenly underwater, sounds blurred and it’s hard to look straight, let alone breath. Who was he kidding this morning, lying to himself about improvement and recovery. A week is only a week and Alec’s gaze drops quickly to his hands as guilt spears him through the chest – he feels it ping around his body before it settles uncomfortably in his belly. 

Imogen must follow his movements and interpret them well; she says, “Making a hard choice isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

Alec’s hands unintentionally curl into fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms. “But the choice to hurt someone isn’t hard – it’s just _wrong_.” 

Imogen leans back in her seat and crosses her arms. “Think about it. He was bound to lash out sooner or later – if you didn’t stop him, he could’ve hurt countless others. Other shadowhunters.”

If the words meant to sound comforting, they do anything but. 

She must sense it, his disapproval, his reluctance to agree. “In this line of work, we are faced with innumerable choices. Difficult choices – oftentimes to prevent brewing conflict, and sometimes to stop wars. And while it may hurt us now to make the decision, it’s up to us to make the right one – the one that keeps the world spinning and the most people safe in the end.” 

“Decisiveness. Humility. An understanding that we are individuals who are not above the law, who have humility and trust in the words of our forefathers to enact change despite the sacrifice it brings. It’s what the Clave looks for in a leader – and you are a leader, Alexander. The Clave recognizes you for it.” Alec finally looks up, and Imogen is piercing in her intensity. “I've spoken to Robert and Maryse, and while we want you to continue in your duties as head of Institute, we have arranged an opportunity for you to join the ranks of Vigilis Noctem, should you so desire.” 

“…What?” His voice comes out hoarse and in a near whisper, in shocked disbelief. 

Vigilis Noctem. The Vigilis was spoken by shadowhunters in hushed tones, as if they were fable, a thing of legend. An organization to be feared yet revered – their names and stories heavily veiled in respect for the work that they do and the deadly swiftness they employ to get things done. To be on the Vigilis was something you did not ask or wish for; it is something to be given, something to be granted to only the most skilled. To be part of an elite group of shadowhunters, assigned with the completion of unique or unusual missions, reporting to the Council directly – Alec can’t believe that he has a chance at this opportunity. 

Never in Alec’s ambitions did he foresee his actions leading him to be worthy of the Vigilis – partially because he was never looking. While his parents instilled in him his ambition at a young age, the trajectories that they had plotted always felt like they had deviated slightly. Wherein Alec’s stopped at the Head of the New York Institute, his parents always talked about _more_ , to reach higher and go further. To climb the ranks of the Clave and be involved with the politics of it all – Alec’s never been sure if that’s exactly what he wanted when everything he needed was right here: his family, his routine, his home. 

But nevertheless, the position remains an attractive temptation – it sings to Alec’s idyllic heart and his pledge to do more, to make things better for the Shadow world and its citizens on a bigger scale. Alec hands curl over the armrests, and he grips them tightly in anticipation. 

It’s like Alec needs several minutes for his mouth to catch up with his brain, when he realizes Imogen is looking at him expectantly, still awaiting his response. 

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’d be honoured,” he says – and all the trepidation he held over the contents over this meeting leave his body like a breath. 

“Then we’ll be expecting you in Alicante sometime next week – and you won’t be needed for escort duty any longer,” Imogen says as she stands to leave.

Alec can’t help it – relief washes over him, that he won’t have to meet _him_ again. 

“Understood,” he says, as he also stands to shake her outstretched hand. “I won’t let you down.” 

She shakes it – with the cookbook under her other arm, and that sharp glint returned to her eyes. “See to it that you don’t,” she says and she turns away from Alec to leave. 

When she finally goes, Alec knees buckle – and he has to sit back down. 

\--

Alec sits in that office for close to an hour. 

The New York Institute’s head office has always felt like home to Alec despite its somber wood, tall bookcases, and the stiff back of the chair that’s never eased, never let loose. It must be the smell of the leather combined with the paper from its tomes that makes him feel like a kid again: Izzy and him waiting for their parents on that carpet, practicing rune-writing at that table, or reading the Codex in that chair – some of Alec’s earliest memories and adventures live in this room, in its walls, that an open door always feels like an invitation as opposed to an intimidation. 

Safety and comfort envelops him like a warm blanket – and it’s enough to pry out truths from within the deepest of corners that he’s fenced off – that something feels inherently wrong about the situation he’s in. 

Alec knows that he should be happy, in fact he should be _ecstatic_ because he’s been granted an opportunity that only presents itself to a handful of shadowhunters who would’ve fought tooth and nail for what he has – yet to him, it’s like the Inquisitor took a piece of him when she left the Institute that’s left a missing space from within him. That inexplicable feeling that something is incomplete because that weight still sits heavy on his shoulders – and that he still doesn’t feel whole.

He sits there for what feels like five minutes, but it’s really an hour – and he doesn’t realize how much time passes, not even when someone else bursts into the office later that evening,

“Here you are,” Izzy says, and Alec sees her head peak into the room when he looks up. Her entrance is close to silent as she crosses her room in her three-inch heels, slightly jarring as Alec waits to hear the clicks on the tiled floor that never come – but her tone is anything but subtle. She wants to talk. “I just spoke to Aline, and she told me the news. I was wondering what was up with you this week – and should I have known, Alec, I would’ve come sooner–”

When she sees Alec sitting low in his chair, his hands tightly knotted together, her pace immediately quickens – and in almost an effortless glide, she’s right in front of him, kneeling as if she were his knight, his protector – and she puts a hand to his arm. “Are you alright?” she asks. Her dark liquid eyes seem to spill into his. She no longer sounds like she did when she first entered, her tone losing that edge of ferocity and defiance – as if she came to Alec expecting a battle. 

Alec heaves out a breath. “Yes. It’s good – I’m good.” It’s not exactly false. “So you’ve heard the news then?”

“Good?” Confusion betrays her face, and she softens even further. “You know you don’t need to put on a brave front, Alec. Especially not in front of me. I’ve known you my entire life and I can tell when things aren’t going your way.”

“But this _is_ a good thing-”

Izzy interrupts, “But then why does your face tell me otherwise?” The intensity of her look, the tenderness that warms them – it almost makes Alec feel foolish from even trying to pretend, that he almost wants to turn away in embarrassment.

There’s no use in trying to tiptoe around Izzy, especially when she’s set her sights on you and charging towards you at ten speed; it’s something that Alec often remembers too late, often struck in these moments with the realization that she’s wiser than her age truly permits – as if the Angel blessed her with foresight or divine empathy. 

“I… I don’t know, Iz. For some reason, accepting this doesn’t feel like the right decision.”

“What’s there to know? If it doesn’t feel right, then it isn’t right. This isn’t something you need your head to decide, it’s _here_ ,” and she places a hand over her abdomen, “Your gut. Don’t overthink this, there isn’t the time to do that right now.”

“But I’ve already accepted–”

“It’s not too late. You can always do _something_ ,” and her grip on his arm tightens. “When we last talked… I could tell that… he’s made a mark on you, Alec. And I worry. I worry because I don’t know everything – and it’s not my place to, I trust you. But even though I don’t know him, what’s happening to him– it’s still just so wrong. The fact that the Clave is doing this, treating life as if it’s worth a couple of pennies–“ 

Alec’s brow furrows. Her words are suddenly lost on him. “Sorry… I don’t think I quite follow. We’re talking about Vigilis Noctem, right?”

“What are you talking about? Vigilis Noctem?” Her eyes fly open and she squeals. “Wait…You’ve been accepted into the Vigilis?”

“Yeah, the Inquisitor came by and– ouch, watch your nails. But go on – what’re you talking about?”

Izzy’s grip slackens – and she lets go of his arm. “I was talking about your Thursday assignment. You know,” She hesitates briefly, “and what’s happening tomorrow.”

Alec’s stomach drops. “And what exactly is happening tomorrow?” 

Izzy doesn’t respond, and this time, it’s her eyes that drop – she can’t meet his gaze. A terrible realization dawns on him.

“What’s happening tomorrow, Izzy?” he repeats himself – yet this time, it comes out in a whisper, an almost aching, pleading sound. He needs to hear it, have it verified in words. “Please. I need to know.”

“Oh Alec, how could you not?” and she takes his face into her hands. 

He pushes her hands away. “Izzy.” He’s not asking anymore. 

Izzy’s avoidance speaks volumes – to see her almost physically shrink, it’s not something one often sees with his sister. That she’s not and her head held high - Alec already knows what’s coming. 

He watches Izzy’s shoulders drop, defeated. “He’s… He’s done, Alec. Magnus Bane. The Clave is done with chances.” She seems to shrink even smaller, her voice suddenly grows incredibly soft. “They want him executed tomorrow.”

Executed. The word rings loud and clear. 

And even though Alec knew it was coming – it still feels like the world is slipping right out from underneath his feet. 

_Executed_. 

And everything about what happened last Thursday suddenly comes together in that moment – like a small flicker of an ember that’s trying so desperately to stay alight. It never sat right with Alec how Magnus acted last Thursday, a strange contrast in what it had been weeks prior. In which Magnus had always been relatively passive in his hatred for all things related to the Clave – never openly aggressive. Alec’s head starts churning, and he realizes that Magnus must have known his fate that day – that he was going to get executed, and had lashed out at the easiest target there, the most likely of culprits. The Inquisitor must have said something, implied something that implicated Alec… Alec’s fingers dig deep into his palms, and he can feel his blunt nails leave half-moons in his skin. 

He remembers what Magnus looked like when he last saw him – what he said when he saw him last, and that final look of hurt splayed openly over his face in reaction. _“You’ve decided your own fate – and you deserve everything that you’ve brought on yourself.”_

Without even knowing, without even trying – Alec had been goaded into saying the worst possible thing he could have just minutes after Magnus found out about his execution. He had said Magnus deserved it. 

But Izzy’s right – how could he not know? Why didn’t Magnus tell him? Was it because of what they agreed to at the beginning of their sessions, to never talk about the status of leniency? Because Magnus stuck to the terms, never even once asking a question that was anything remotely close to what the status of the trial was – so Alec never questioned it. He trusted the Clave to dole out justice in a fair and honourable way, in which the verdict was either innocence or guilt, not innocence or death. 

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that there was an end to this? _A life for a life._ Sacrifice. Alec feels incredibly naïve and young all of a sudden, and he berates himself for it. Why didn’t he ask more about the leniency trials? He could’ve asked those guards. Hell, why didn’t he ask Magnus? Is that why they gave him the position on the Vigilis – because he never _questioned_ , did what he was told? That in the end, he’s just another tool in the Clave’s arsenal, another soldier – another person to carry out orders blindly – to be decisive, to understand, to sacrifice?

But in the end, it’s not his anger that wins out – its fear. Fear that a person will be executed for a crime he may not have committed, and that Alec could’ve done something to stop it. Fear that this time around, he let his negative emotions towards Magnus blind him, preventing him from choosing to doing the right thing. 

And as he feels the skin stretch tight across his face, Izzy’s words echo loudly again.

_They want him executed tomorrow._

Magnus is going to get executed. It pulses like a beat, like a drum. 

And it only takes a second for everything to finally slide into place for Alec, that one, final missing piece.

He looks at Izzy. He immediately can tell that she wants to fuss over him – he can’t even imagine what expression he’s wearing on his face right now – her eyes so deep and warm, an invitation for him to share. That she wants to lock him in the tightest hug and tell him to not let go. To tell him that he doesn’t have to do this alone. 

He peers at the clock that ticks loudly above the door. And the fact that it’s almost midnight – _fuck_ , that it’s almost Thursday – kicks him into high gear. Time isn’t on his side; he can’t stay. “Sorry, Izzy – I… I need to go,” he says.

He can’t look at her anymore – because he already knows what he’s going to see. He’s going to see his little sister there – arms open, eyes steeled, asking Alec what she can do to help. But he can’t, he just can’t – this isn’t her battle to fight. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he throws on his jacket and grabs his stele – and then he’s already down the hall.

Immense relief floods him when he passes the training area and Izzy is nowhere to be seen, even after he passes central command. Everyone else is like a blur, and he barely notices the shadowhunters who flow around him, his focus trained only on the large Institute doors. 

_You could take a knife to the heart for me and it still wouldn’t settle anything between us,_ Magnus had said. But it isn’t about settling anything with Magnus, is it? After all, what does Alec owe him? Nothing. And Alec had lost sight of what mattered by making it personal. By making it about _Magnus_ instead of what it should have always been about.

It should have been about finding out the truth. About verifying that it wasn’t an innocent man who was rotting in the City of Bones for fifteen years. It shouldn’t matter that the man in question had touched Alec to get the upper hand, that he would – and has – spit on Alec’s face. That the man has the kind of burning eyes that it’s left a scorch on Alec’s bones. That he’s fond of Peru. That he loved his best friend. That he only looks forward, never looks back. That’s he’ll go through Alec to move forward and have no regrets.

The only thing that needs settling is the conflict inside of Alec – the conflict that had reached its crux when the Inquisitor had extended her offer. 

Accepting it shouldn’t have felt like the wrong choice. It shouldn’t have felt like choosing between what’s good and what’s lawful. It doesn’t feel right, he’d told Izzy. But this–

The second he crosses the threshold and feels the heavy step of gravel underfoot, he’s running. 

Even though it’s going against everything he’s ever known, there’s no conflict in Alec as he goes.

\--

The most logical place to find Raphael is the DuMort Hotel. It’s easy enough to find the location even though Alec’s missions rarely pull him to the area, half of the work done by Googlemaps (in which the hotel is strangely tagged as a tourist attraction – go figure), and the other half, an easy deduction by his senses which identifies that slight tang of that metallic, coppery scent that runs like an undercurrent in the night air, and the taste of iron that touches his tongue. 

At first glance, Alec doesn’t like the neighbourhood at all. Even with his heightened speed runes, the alleys stretch long like tunnels that disappear into the nothingness of night, and similarly with the buildings – except they stretch tall instead of wide, block after block of menacingly high apartments with iron gates over the windows, as if they were constructed with the very purpose to block out the sun. 

At second glance, he hates it even more. The lights of neon blur past him in moving bands of colour as he zips past – strangely discreet advertisements for “wine bars” and “nightclubs” – blood banks and bleeder dens in disguise. Alec physically startles when he hears a terrifying scream – in fear or in pleasure, Alec can’t really tell – that echoes loudly into the night. He torments over whether he should go investigate or not, but no, _no_ , not right now – and he prays to high heaven that it’s the latter. 

He spots the DuMort sign first. He barely makes it five steps from its elaborate doors however, before he’s tackled into the alley, the force of the impact like being hit by a car, and he feels himself pushed back five, ten, then twenty feet. He can tell that his feet are not touching the ground - not even when his back makes impact with large dumpster behind him, and a startling clang echoes loudly through the narrow space. Alec gasps out a wheezing breath as a hand grasps as his throat. 

"Why the _fuck_ aren't you answering my messages? I thought I told you what happened to people who get in my way,” a voice hisses, and it’s like black oil – the voice grates at insides like a broken whistle or the sound of iron being dragged across stone.

Raphael – of course it’s Raphael. His canines shine white in the darkness. 

Alec chokes – Raphael isn’t fucking around. In an instant, Alec realizes that this isn’t just a tactic to scare, it’s also a tactic to hurt – and he can easily tell based on the force that suffocates him, the hand that holds him. Alec’s instincts that are screaming at him, telling him to reach his blade, to land a kick into his attacker’s ribs, to escape from this goddamn vampire is trying to kill him – but he ignores all of that. Ignores all of it in favour of one other singular thought that shines bright in his mind, like a guiding star that cuts through all the noise, the pain, the sensation – that allows him to think clearly despite everything around him. _Magnus is going to be executed tomorrow._

Choking, he still raises his hands slowly in surrender. 

Raphael’s dark brooding eyes are appraising him – a telltale sign that Alec’s reaction isn’t one he was expecting. “Are you that stupid, Lightwood? Walking into a lion’s den with your weapon sheathed and your back turned?” 

Alec knows he has to choose his words carefully right now. “I… I made a mistake,” he starts. The words sound strained, exhaled out with the last bit of air left in his windpipe. 

It’s not an apology – Alec doesn’t have anything to be sorry for, especially to Raphael. Not when Raphael’s made a series of assumptions about him, incorrect ones, about why he’s doing this, about why he’s here. However, the past week has been a series of unfortunate events and in turn, lessons learnt; after all he’s been through in the past week, he knows that anger isn’t what’s needed right now, nor is it pride. 

Saving Magnus requires compromise and trust. He needs Raphael to know that he’s not looking for a fight today – he’s looking to talk.

Those dark eyes are back on him again, pitch black and assessing. The wariness is still there as he lowers Alec – and Alec can feel the pavement hits the bottom of his boots once again. The pressure around his throat slightly release as well – but it’s not totally gone, a ghost of a sensation that feels like a knife against throat or a threat pressed against his neck, Raphael’s fingers like untightened bands that can pull taut at any movement. 

A quick flicker in Raphael’s expression tells Alec he’s made the right start; it’s like a nonverbal cue, a prompt for Alec to continue. 

So he does. 

“Last week, I… I was conflicted. I was confused about my judgement, and whether I was doing the right thing,” Alec starts – and he stares at a place right over Raphael’s shoulder, refusing to meet his eyes. Raphael doesn’t need to know what exactly had happened that had made Alec pause. This isn’t personal anymore. It’s not. “Hell, ever since I’ve met Magnus, I’ve been struck with such… Ideas and thoughts… And questions. So many questions that I’m afraid to ask. Afraid to hear the answer.” 

The next part – it’s almost like a mental wall that stops his mouth from moving, like a safety that makes him stall. _By the Angel, use your fucking brain, Alexander Lightwood_ , logic screams at him, telling him to be sensible, to not reveal his heart and soul to this vampire who already has his life almost literally in his hands. 

But there’s another voice that wins out over logic this time, that sparks bright and determined from the centre of his stomach. 

Alec finally meets Raphael’s gaze head-on. He needs Raphael’s trust and if it requires him to be vulnerable and bare his weaknesses, so be it – it’s the least he can do to save a life. “I was mad at him. Magnus. He did something to me, something cruel – and I was angry. Angry that I let myself trust him, betrayed that it was so easy for him to throw everything back in my face,” he admits. “I took it out on him… I didn’t want to save him. I didn’t think he deserved saving.” 

“But there were things I didn’t know… That the Clave didn’t tell me,” Alec says. “The extent that they would go to…I didn’t know how serious the consequences were, what position he was in.” Alec swallows the building lump in his throat, that sits uncomfortably like a stone. “But he doesn’t deserve to die like this.”

Raphael however, is a hard man to convince – he isn‘t having any of it. “It’s just like you and your kind to blame it on ignorance. The fact that you were just following orders, and that you never ask what you are doing at why you are doing it. Don’t you have a spine, Lightwood? Don’t you move according to your own free will? You need to be take things into your own hands, be responsible for yourself – you shape your own future.”

The words have an oddly familiar ring to it – and Alec frowns. It’s not Raphael’s place to lecture him about this – to tell him not accept deals blindly and not taking the initiative to dig further – when Raphael’s only done the same thing to him, put him in the exact same position. 

“Yeah, exactly how you told me to pry into your own goddamn business, about the flower and the letter.” He can’t help it – the clipped tone that edges into his voice. 

A dark look crosses over Raphael’s face. “You are not my keeper, Lightwood. I don’t need to tell you what I do and why I do it.”

“But you and I – we made a deal. And deals involve a certain level of trust. That each party will abide by their responsibilities and come through.” 

Raphael snorts. “You’re more naïve than I thought if you think I trust you at all. I don’t think I’ve even made it a secret that I don’t.” 

“Look, I get it. I _get_ it, that I’m just a tool for you and a tool for the Clave and a tool for Magnus,” Alec grits out, frustrated. “But think about it from my perspective – I am making a choice, putting my life, my career, and everything on the line for this.” 

Raphael’s face remains impossibly neutral, to the point where Alec just wants to grab this stubborn son of a bitch by his shoulders and shake him hard – but he refrains. Instead, his own voice rises to the point where it feels like it’s booming across the narrow alley, the waver in his voice completely stamped out, determined and unafraid.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to. I’ve told you about the signature and I’ve kept your letter to Magnus a secret. You tell me to take things into my own hands and to shape my own future – what the hell do you think I’m here for? _I am_ doing just that, coming to you.”

It feels like a minute has ticked by before Raphael grip on his neck finally releases – and Alec puts his own hand out onto the metal of the dumpster behind him to steady himself when Raphael steps back. 

“In one of those letters I sent you – I told you what I found.” Raphael says coolly. “That we’ve figured out the signature, who it belongs to.”

“What?” _What?_ Was Raphael just fucking with him all this time?

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a bigger idiot than you, Alexander Lightwood.” 

Annoyed that he’s getting this kind of lip after everything that’s happened, Alec shoots back, “And I’d say I’ve never met a bigger asshole than you but your buddy Magnus takes the top of that list.”

“Touché.” Raphael’s back is turned, and he’s already walking away from him, out of the alley and towards the DuMort’s side entrance. “Get inside – it’s already Thursday and we have a lot to do if we’re going to do anything about my _buddy_ Magnus’ fate.” 

_Fuck, its Thursday._

The realization that is indeed the end of Wednesday hits Alec like a huge weight piled onto to his back when he barely has his hands free to support what he has now – the amount of responsibility strangely tangible and even more looming knowing that he has less than a day to break Magnus Bane out of one of the most secure prisoners known to the Shadow World and heaven above. Almost unconsciously, Alec puts a hand to his own back – and it aches. Aches with a low throbbing pain right in the dip of the back, like a kink that just won’t straighten. But the pain is nowhere near distracting as the terrible concoction of smells of grime and iron that coats the alley – and it’s suddenly a very easy decision to follow Raphael through the sidedoor of the DuMort. He keeps pace with Raphael’s quick steps as he crosses threshold. 

Before he enters however, Alec gives one final glance around the alley warily – he’s not exactly sure what happened here, but it definitely felt like a test. _Another game_ , he thinks tiredly, tired that it feels like everyone around him moves in diagonals, whereas he moves in straight lines. 

Yet there’s a niggling sense of accomplishment about that one piece of information that Raphael slip – that he sent Alec a letter with actual useful information, and they finally have a lead on that signature – and the tightness in his brow he’s been carrying ever since he’s entered this neighbourhood slightly relaxes. 

While his partnership with Raphael isn’t exactly enough to move mountains, it’s still a damn good start. 

\--

In the next day that elapses between Alec’s meeting at the DuMort and Magnus’ execution, there are exactly three moments in which Alec is struck with doubt. 

The first is when Raphael tells him the plan. 

“…What? That’s all you need me to do?” Alec asks. He can’t hide his surprise at the utter simplicity of it all. 

“I hate repeating myself,” Raphael replies. He crosses his arms – Alec now acknowledges that what he thought was the creaking of the hotel’s bones could easily be mistaken to the impatient tap of soles on hardwood floors instead. “Stele and meeting location. Pass it to Magnus.”

Alec frowns. It definitely can’t be as simple as that. “There will be Silent Brothers watching.”

“That’s all you need me to do?” Raphael mimics and Alec swears he sees the vampire roll his eyes. “ _¡Por el amor de Dios,_ you’re a goddamn shadowhunter – you figure it out.”

“Clearly I have to,” says Alec, irritated. “Because you never got around to it.”

Raphael glares at him. 

It’s a hastily thought out plan, if one can even deign it as thought out or a plan; there are no benchmark specifics on the timing, movement, nor the location. Raphael doesn’t even try to disguise this fact in any way, that this is what you’ll get from him when you come knocking on his door in the middle of night asking for help to break in a facility he’s never even seen filled with people he doesn’t know. The way he speaks is as if it’s an exceedingly generous offer – which may be the case since Alec’s burned all his attempts at communication in the past week. Except then he’d have to pretend that it wasn’t Raphael who had approached Alec in the first place. Whatever helps the vampire not-sleep at night. The way that Alec executes the “plan” doesn’t concern Raphael, so long as he delivers the end result. 

Raphael tells him other things though, in short, curt sentences – but it’s like pulling teeth, in which Alec barely receives answers even when he asks. 

“You mentioned that you had a lead?”

There’s no response on Raphael’s end until Alec prompts him again with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, did you hear what I-“

“I heard you. Don’t get comfortable with me,” Raphael says as he flinches away. He seems to leap about several feet away from Alec, stung from his touch.

Alec exhales deeply through his nose out of weariness and exasperation. The fact that Raphael came to _him_ asking him for help, the fact that Raphael had compromised, they’d come to what Alec thought was an understanding in this whole initiative – he thought things would at least be marginally easier this time around. But chalk it up to be Alexander Lightwood for things never go exactly as planned; dealing with Raphael is a headache and a half – it’s what Alec imagines what dealing with a rebellious teenager in the midst of puberty feels like. 

There are things that Alec notices though, small little actions and nuances such as the way that Raphael can’t help but slur his H’s and the practiced roundness to his O’s, the softness of his voice, and the sharp narrowing to his eyes when Alec’s makes a comment he doesn’t particularly like. It strangely has the feel of Magnus – except a little bit more brooding and definitely less talkative – prickly and capricious like a cat. 

But then Raphael then utters a single word: London. He says it like he doesn’t want to, nuanced with some sort of reluctance – as if Alec were to report him to the Clave as soon as he turns his back. 

Yet he says it with weight like it’s the answer to everything. 

“What about London?” Alec prompts. 

“That signature – we traced it to a shadowhunter who works at your Institute there. Goes by the name of Albert Pencove.” 

Alec frowns. _A shadowhunter._

Alec’s not stupid – that report he found on the server several weeks ago alluded to several glaring conclusions – while not a lot, there were still a few. But out of the few, the easiest and most significant takeaway was that there was shadowhunter involvement – the level of secrecy surrounding Magnus’ case, the redacted information, and the mention of Herondale – it had the Clave’s fingerprints all over it. There isn’t anything contradictory that warrants denial; it is such a glaring, obvious truth. But to hear it in words – it’s disappointing. 

“How did you figure this out?”

“If you don’t think you’ll like the answer, don’t ask.”

“Look, if you don’t tell me anything, this isn’t going to work. We’ve barely got a semblance of a plan here – when should Magnus be portalling? Where exactly in London should he be meeting you-“

Raphael slams his hands on the desk, abrupt and angry. “I don’t fucking know, Lightwood,” he hisses, “ _I don’t fucking know._ ”

Frustrating – there isn’t any other word to describe Alec’s sentiments for working with Raphael. As the acting Head of the New York Institute, Alec’s used to being in charge, used to logical and constructive discussion about what their options are, and what their plan should be. But this is none of those things. Raphael isn’t one of his disciplined shadowhunters – he’s emotional and unpredictable, doing whatever it takes to save Magnus in his time of need. And as much as it pains Alec to not know everything and all access to all information at his disposal, Alec is simultaneously aware of how little this is about _him_ ; this isn’t just about doing what’s right and giving second chances. There are probably thousands of people and places and stories connected to Magnus in a finely weaved web, frayed threads that he doesn’t have a clue about – and when Magnus gets out of there, things will change. 

Things will change. And while right now it’s hard to tell in what way, it will always be _better_ , so long as Alec tries. 

Raphael finally turns to face him. There’s a sharp gleam to his black eyes that sears into Alec like a fire – full of burning determination. “I don’t know,” he repeats one more time, “but trust me, as I trust you. It’ll _work_.”

And for once, Alec believes him – and his doubt extinguishes. 

The second time doubt strikes Alec is later in the day, that Thursday at 7pm, when he’s reached the gates of the Marble Cemetery.

Like always, he’s there alone. Alone with the cold gnawing on his fingers, and the wind forcefully billowing wind in his face – almost as if its telling him to go, to not step a foot into its grounds and wander past the sacred ground of the deceased. He suddenly feels so small standing next to the gates that barely tower over him, its heavy iron frame and the naked trees surrounding them tufted with clumpy melting snow from the snowfall several days before. The night comes in earlier during this time of year – so much so that it’s hard for Alec to see anything past the bars besides the sparse shadows that dance around the glistening snow piles, illuminated in places where the streetlight touches. 

Strangely, it feels like the first time he’s been here – despite knowing that it’s the last.

That same sort of biting apprehension he felt on that very first day guides him through the cemetery, as if pulling him through as if he were on a string, getting him to put one foot in front of the other, almost in a steady march. There is nothing welcoming about this place – and even what lays beyond… Alec draws his jacket in closer and pulls in a deep breath, full of cold air that seems to set his lungs alight. He could turn around right here and now, who would ever know? 

Alec laughs mirthlessly. _He_ would know, and that’s more of a deterrent than anything else. Now that he’s already decided – if Alec wanted to change his mind, it would’ve have been about 20 hours past. At this point, there’s no turning back. Not only for Magnus, but for himself – knowing that inaction and feigned ignorance would do nothing but leave a permanent chip in his soul that he could never live with, to go on comfortably living his life with the guilt that comes with never knowing the “what if”s.

It’s the soldier’s march into battle – knowing that you’re willingly to walk into the unknown, dangers be damned. 

Knowing despite unknowing; knowing that this last time he’ll be walking this path, the last time he’ll be greeted by the audience of gravestones that salute to him, their backs straight like solemn hellos. That this is the last time he will push past the door, feel the uneven roughness of the stone slats beneath his palms – that he ventures in not knowing what will happen, what lays before him, behind the door and into the Silent City. That despite the consequences that shake out of what will happen within the underground tonight, Alec will have to accept responsibility for the outcome.

The ultimate leap of faith.

With that thought, he enters – swallowed by the darkness below. 

And on that Thursday, the last time that Alec encounters doubt? It’s when he’s finally face to face with Magnus for the very last time. 

It comes to him in the form a thought; an existing one that he’s previously had. A glimmer of it appearing in the midst of his conversation with Raphael at midnight, only hours before. It is neither doubt about whether the plan will work or not, nor is it the kind of doubt that stems from the moral greys that come with this kind of choice, deciding whether to betray what you know in favour for what you value. 

It’s the uncertainty that comes with knowing that things will change. 

The last time that they had spoke, it had been an argument, in which Magnus had called him worthless and a coward. Alec had tried to match Magnus in his own harshness – calling him inhuman, incapable of thinking about anyone but himself. Both sets of words spoken in anger, spoken in fear – a means and a method of pushing away from each other and to hide open wounds. Alec knows he didn’t mean everything he’s said, especially not the part that implied fate wanted Magnus dead – no, never that – but Magnus’ intentions have always remained heavily obscured under what feels like several different skins. 

Alec knows nothing about what Magnus feels for him, doesn’t know which Magnus is the real one. Did Magnus mean what he said – when he said he was only a cog in his plan? Or could it have actually meant something when he kissed Alec, or when he couldn’t look at Alec anymore and had to turn away? Can his words be taken at face value, or were they also his shield? At this point, Alec can admit to himself that he likes Magnus – perhaps even something a little more than that. Alec likes Magnus as a person and is attracted to what he represents with almost an envy of the carelessness that he lives with. How he is truthful with himself in aspects which Alec gravely struggles, sticking by his decisions with an extreme stubbornness – never relenting, even when Alec completely disagrees with Magnus, when he thinks he’s in the wrong. 

But with Magnus, he knows none of these things. 

After all that’s said and done, it’s likely that he still won’t know anything. After Magnus breaks free, the uncertainty never dips – Magnus won’t turn to him, ask for help from him. And it sinks in – that this is the last time. The last time that Alec may speak to Magnus again, that this will just pass as a small blip of a moment in Alec’s life where he was supposed to guard a warlock for fifteen weeks. That he may never have the opportunity to talk to Magnus again, to ask another question, to know what this was.

Maybe he’ll see Magnus again. Maybe he won’t. It won’t change what Alec has to do. 

Alec ponders this as he clasps Magnus’ thin wrists with his fingers, almost like manacles – as he inspects the magical inhibitors for the last time. He decides to ask Magnus that one last final question.

“Are you afraid of dying, Magnus?” 

Only for that moment, Alec’s glad that Magnus doesn’t have his magic – because he’s sure that the glare that Magnus shoots would likely burned him alive. He was supposed to say that with a bit more tenderness – but when it comes to these matters of persuasion, Alec’s only specialty is tact. Nevertheless, the insensitively has caught Magnus’ attention – and that’s all he needs. Raphael only cared about end results anyways.

“Y’know, I think I lied when I said I wasn’t afraid of dying,” Alec starts, before Magnus interrupts him with a snort.

Alec ignores him. “I’ve thought about what you said several weeks ago about dying. And maybe there would things that I’d be scared of… not scared exactly. That isn’t the right word. More of a disappointment maybe? Disappointment over what I would miss in a life that’s been cut too short.”

“I’d be sad to miss those moments – to see whether my sister ends up going through her Iron Sister trials. To not know whether Jace ends up marrying Clary… or how many kids they would have. Whether Max ends up following in our footsteps – and not see how much of a badass he can be. Not being able to protect them and not knowing anything about what the future holds for those I care about.”

Magnus looks increasingly bewildered as Alec talks and Alec feels his own his anxiety rocket. God, if this doesn’t work –

“But I think in my final moments, I don’t think they’d want me to worry. To die angry, upset or afraid. They’d want me to think of better times, of something… happy. A happy memory, a happy time. Perhaps a favourite moment of mine, my favourite place,” Alec says, and as he does – he steps a little bit closer and pulls Magnus hands towards the front of his jacket – the one where a stele peeks out from under his pocket flap. 

Magnus doesn’t move, just resting his hands over Alec’s heart. Alec knows that Brother Isaac is still watching them – and maneuvers his own hand to clasp tightly over Magnus, pressing it to his chest. “I think in that moment, you should think about your favourite place too,” Alec says softly, his eyes piercing. 

Magnus startles at his response. He looks at Alec, confused.

“Just think about your favourite place,” Alec repeats – and he lets go.

He hopes to the angels that Magnus understands what Alec means by favourite place. He hopes to the angels that was enough of an opening to get the stele to Magnus. He’s too nervous to pat his own pocket to check. 

And then they walk. And as they walk, Alec waits – waits for something to happen. But nothing happens as they traverse through the winding tunnels, back up into the main cells. Nothing happens as they pass the cluster of other prisoners, who hoot and holler – high on whatever life they cling to, knowing that it’s not them on the chopping block today, clinging to the last bits of life left. Nothing even happens when the reach the main lit halls. Past the winding stairs. 

They walk until suddenly, steps away from the portalling room – Magnus turns to face behind him, to face Alec. “My favourite place,” he repeats – and the look in his eyes tells Alec he understands.

He barely has time to process the overwhelming relief, however – because the next thing Alec knows, Brother Isaac goes flying. 

Alec has never been this close to a warlock in the midst of combat before, particularly not one that’s on his side, nor matched with Magnus’ caliber of expertise. The release of it, the magic – is overwhelming. Alec feels like he’s standing next to a furnace, hot and thrumming with power, despite being pushed several feet away. 

And that furnace is Magnus. Alec can tell that despite not having access to his magic for several years, this is something that comes as a second nature to him – and despite the Silent City being a huge underground network of open-ended pathways and tunnels, the room suddenly feels incredibly stifling. 

Alec can’t breathe properly – the intensity of Magnus’ red magic seems to pour out of him in huge tides, a release of a valve that has been shut off for a very long time. Alec can here the crackle of the magic in the air, as Brother Isaac thrashes on the ground several times – before he goes still. 

Magnus goes to check on Brother Isaac up close – before he turns back and faces Alec. 

Alec freezes. He can’t move. He’s pretty sure it’s not Magnus’ magic. 

Magnus approaches Alec, walking briskly as he comes closer, each one of his steps echoing loudly against the stone floor – the soft thuds of his bare feet hitting the stone floor. And while Alec can see the speed at which Magnus is walking towards him, the urgency that Magnus moves with – more Silent Brothers are bound to show up any second now – it still feels like Magnus is walking too slow. It’s because Alec is staring, staring for what feels like an eternity, staring at this creature who is walking towards him with magic pulsing blue and red in his hands. 

Magnus seems to have changed in an instant. He looks almost healthy again – the distant glaze to his eyes almost gone, as if he’s being pulled out of a long dream or shaken awake out of a slumber. And when Magnus finally stops in front of Alec, Alec can see that his eyes are oddly clear framed by the golden torch light, beautiful – even more so than before.

And the way he looks at Alec – he looks at Alec with an emotion that Alec can’t exactly place. It’s as if he’s looking at Alec for the first time – trying to decipher Alec’s inner workings, trying figure out how could something of his nature could possibly exist. 

Magnus comes in close and then stops, only a hands width apart. If Alec were to tilt his head slightly forward, it would knock gently into Magnus’ – but he won’t. Because this isn’t the time to or the place to be doing this, when Alec knows he has to move while Magnus has to get going. But he can’t – they both can’t. Like a tree planted firmly by its roots, Alec is grounded, grounded by the familiarity of their situation, in how this feels like it did before, that moment that passed between them a couple of weeks ago in their white room in Idris. When he held that razor inches from Magnus’ face. In which Magnus’ cheek rested on his palm. Where they were locked in a frame of tension that separated them for what felt like minutes, that they wouldn’t break past. 

Alec remembers it vividly; the intensity of charge between them, and how it was lost as Magnus turned away. 

_It isn’t personal_.

Alec exhales a breath, defeated, doing so as quietly as he can. Alec already knows how this will end. He can’t take it personally – he repeats it to himself one more time.

But this time, Magnus breaks it, that invisible barrier between them, by leaning in. 

He presses a single kiss to Alec’s cheek. 

Time seems to slow as Alec feels Magnus’ lips touch his skin. He can feel the start of Magnus beard growing back, the rough pinpricks of new hair as it drags against his cheek. The press of his lips is a bright spot that feels fleeting, yet it lingers – permeating warmth into his veins through some sort of osmosis, spreading into his arms, his fingers, his heart. His heart which seems to suddenly pump louder, faster. Revitalized, as if Magnus kissed him with magic itself.

His skin tingles as Magnus pulls away.

“You are truly a good man, Alexander Lightwood,” Magnus whispers to him. The words disappear into the air, rushes over him light as a breath. 

“I’m–” Magnus starts, before he stops himself. He never once drops his eyes away from Alec, never once looks away.

“ _What? You’re what?_ ”, Alec wants to ask. But he never gets a chance to speak. 

Because in the next second, Magnus knocks him out with a blow to the side of his head. 

**PART 1 END**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment - I'd love to hear what you think!


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